Fever
by Lucy Van Pelt
Summary: After leaving Buffy, Spike realizes he can't live without her. His return is hindered by Buffy's hesitancy to accept him as a man who loves her, and not just a Slayer killer who is infatuated with her. Part II of the series that began with Protection.
1. Chapter One

Title: Fever

Pairing:  Buffy and Spike

Rating:  Another hard R.  I have fiercely edited this one for content and, again, spelling errors.  But Buffy and Spike ride again and there are some explicit scenes, one in an alley outside the Bronze.  Reader discretion advised.

Disclaimer:  Isn't Joss lucky?   He owns all these lovely characters, and he's rich.  I write about these characters and those ads for Profina debt solutions are looking more attractive than Spike's toned abs every day.

CHAPTER ONE

It's the after supper crowd at the Bronze.  Light, a few couples gathered at tables here and there.  Soon, it will be the thrashing hour.  That time before midnight and after ten that throbs with dance beats and pulsating hormones.  There is real life to the place then.  Now it's slow, consistent, and predictable.  It's almost easy to guess when the guy at table four has finally ingested all the beer he can before he has to excuse himself from his buzzing lady love in favor of a trip to the men's room.  In Buffy's meter, she has clocked him in at three, then time to pee.

            She is lingering a bit too long over the counter, watching the patrons and occasionally sighing deeply, dreamily, until the peevish bartender nudges her with the tall Guiness Stout he has pulled from the newly tapped keg.  She holds the beer in her hand for a minute, watching the brown bottom devour the beige foam on top.  She is soon prompted again to return to the floor.

            This tray is easy.  All of them are easy, actually.  The bartender intentionally fills the tray with all manner of scooners, mugs, pitchers, and snifters to see how much she can handle.  But she can handle anything, he has learned.  She lifts everything over her head with equal ease.  He wonders sometimes if she's a superhero.

            She wanders out onto the floor.  She forgets for a moment where she's supposed to go.  Was it table number five or table number twelve?  They both have that "v" and sound very similar when shouted out above the roar of the DJ's music.  She looks around.  Who looks the thirstiest?  Well, the college-age students always look thirsty.  Even if they have two full pitchers in front of them, it's as though they could have five more there and still want more.

            _Like vamps_, she says to herself.

            She begins to wind her way around the club, bending to everyone she sees who sports a nearly empty mug or glass.  But no one has ordered the tall Guiness.  She hasn't checked the upper tier.  That's not her station anyway.  Unless the disgruntled waitress she talked to last night made good on her promise to turn in her apron that day and Buffy's suddenly been assigned to both the upper and the lower.  But surely the boss would have told her something…

            "Did you say table five or table twelve?"  she asks the bartender after she's finally given up.

            "Five," he says as he dunks a plastic pitcher into a sink full of dark suds.

            "Table five.  OK.  I'm on my way,"  she says, hoisting the tray once again.  She feels silly.  Table five is right by table four, where the girl sits all alone, waiting for her Beta Theta Eta chested boy to come back from the restroom.

            But table five is empty.  And it was empty when she checked there moments before.  Undaunted, she puts the beer on the table.  But she shouldn't have done that.  _The napkin first, the napkin first!  __Always the napkin first!  Why can't I remember that?_

_            "Are you sure it was table five?"  she says, upon her return to the bar.  "There's no one there."_

            The bartender leans his hands on the table.  "Look, Buffy, I took the guy's drink order because you were wandering around looking for the folks who ordered the Pims and strawberry daiquiris.  He said he was at that table right over there," he says, inclining an arched thumb towards the empty table beside the now cooing college students'.

            "Are you sure?"  she asks.

            "Positive.  He ordered cooking sherry.  When I laughed at him, he said Guiness would do.  And then I told him he's have to wait because I needed to bring in another keg."

            Something strange comes over Buffy now.  Actually, it's what she's been feeling since she first walked to the empty table and set the beer down.  There had been someone there.  And it was someone who didn't want her to see him just yet.

            "Did you see him?"  she asks.  

            "Nope.  Had my back turned."

            _Damn._

            "But he spoke with a British accent, if that helps."

            Oh, that helps her a lot.  Too much.  

            She spins around from the bar.  The table is till empty.  And the beer is gone.  She strides toward  number four.  The college students are holding hands, gazing longingly into each others' glassy eyes.    

            "Excuse me,"  she says to the couple.  They stare up at her as though she had just threatened their mothers' lives.  "Did you see anyone at the table next to you?  Anyone?"

            They look at each other.  Why this intrusion?  How hard is it to keep up with a few dozen customers?  Is she stupid or something?

            "No,"  the boy replies.  "Did you, hun?"

            "Not a soul,"  she says.

            Not a soul,  Buffy thinks to herself.  And then there's no question.

            Spike is back.

            Tara, Willow, Xander, and Anya enter the Bronze that night.  It is a Thursday, an almost weekend night.  And the club is beginning to fill up.  There is a table by a two drunken college students, a boy and a girl, who are so into each other their beers remain untouched.  But they are they only things at the table that remain untouched.

            "Woah!   PDA alert in effect!"  Xander says, raising his hands in the air.  "Haven't seen that much tongue since I used to hang out at the butcher's shop."

            They settle down at the table, looking out for Buffy.  They soon collectively spot her, tray in hand, searching for the folks who have just ordered three scooners of beer, four pitchers, and a dozen or so tequila shots.

            "That can't be one order,"  Willow says.

            "Not unless Dylan Thomas fell back to earth,"  Xander says.

            "Aw, honey,"  Anya says.  "Dylan didn't drink tequila.  Whisky was his drink.  I know.  I drank with him the night he wrote 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night.'  I was the one who suggested 'curse, bless me now'  instead of 'hide, taunt me now,' or something like that.  He thought I was his friend Ioan.  Damn drunk.  I guess I could have killed him, but he was just so sweet."

            "You knew Dylan Thomas?"  Tara asks.

            "Well,"  Anya muses.  "No one ever truly knew him."

            Buffy is now at their table after depositing her drink order at four different tables.  Her tray is empty now, and she holds it at her side like a ready shield.

            "Hi, guys,"  she says.  

            "Buffy!"  Xander says.  "Imagine seeing you here!"

            "Where else have I been for the past six months?"  she says.

            Though Xander intends to keep the air light and lively, be cannot help but be stunned by the weight of her comment.  And as he looks around, he sees that his friends share the same concern.  All of a sudden the toll of the last six months seem frighteningly obvious on the seemingly unburdened shoulders of the Slayer who holds an empty tray.  But she seems hunched, a bit tired.  Her smile wants to match their giddiness of sharing a night out, but she is working.  She is serving them.  In her face is all the heartache of the time since February, since her mother died, since she had to sell the house, since she had to quit school, since she had to take this job…

            The suddenness of their combined realization hushes them and they cannot speak for a while.  It is Buffy who speaks next, spinning the tray around on her smallish hand

            "So what'll it be?"  she asks.

            "Oh, I was thinking of something…"  Anya says.  "Something…oh, God!  What was it called?  Dylan used to order it all the time."

            "Bob Dylan?"  Buffy asks.

            "No, Dylan Thomas,"  Xander says.  "Turns out Anya knew him."

            "Yeah, you missed it, Buffy.  Anya was telling us all about how she was with him the night he wrote 'Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,'"  Willow says.

            I miss a lot of things these days,  she thinks to herself.  But she doesn't dare say it.  She can tell they're already forming pity parties for her in their minds.

            As she stands there drumming her tray, they do realize how much she has missed.  There is an empty seat there.  But she won't sit in it.  She hasn't even looked at it.

            She takes their drink order.  

            "I'll have a diet coke,"  Xander says.  "And an order of spicy hot buffalo wings."

            "Xander, we just ate!"  Anya says.

            "Two hours ago,"  Xander says.

            "We went to that new Thai place that opened,"  Anya says, gripping Xander's hand.  "Mmm mmm mmm."

            "It was a show with everything but Yul Brynner,"  Xander says.

            Everyone bursts into giggles as Buffy fixes them with a puzzled look.

            Willow recovers enough to explain, "The whole time Xander kept quoting 'One Night in Bangkok.'"

            "'Siam's going to be the witness to the ultimate test of cerebral fitness!'"  Xander says.

            "I've never even heard the song and I was in tears,"  Anya says.  But she sobers at Buffy's nonplused glare.  "But I guess you had to be there."

            "Guess so,"  Buffy says.

            The others quickly place their orders and Buffy saunters off for the bar.  In the wake of her absence, there's a guilt that ricochets from one face to the other.  The words "poor Buffy" are the ones that one to come to the surface.  But they have said that so often among them it's totally meaningless now.  They watch her at the bar, leaning over, her blond hair up in a mussed ponytail.  She offers the bartender a charming smile, communicating with him in a way that she hasn't with them in a long time.

            "Buffy…" Xander says, eliminating "poor" just because…  "Following in the fine tradition of Florence Jean Castlebury, Rachel Green and," he takes a breath, "Jenny Gump."

            "She's doing all right though,"  Tara says.  "Or she will be."

            "What do you mean?"  Willow asks.

            "There's something in the air."  Tara feels something.  It's so tangible she can almost skewer it with her finger.  "There's something here.  Some presence.  It feels…protective towards her."

            "I don't know, Tara.  Could it be…us?"  Xander says.

            She shakes her head.  "No, it's not us.  It's something else.  It's something that wants to help her…"  Her eyes close involuntarily and there is a twinge of pain at her side.  _Or harm her, her mind says, though she does not._

            Buffy is standing by the bar, one arm on her hip, waiting for her drink order.  The bartender is pulling another Guiness stout.  

            _Where is he?   she wonders._

            I suck as a waitress, Buffy thinks to herself as she sits perched on the roof of a mausoleum.  

            It's a little after two in the morning.  Here lately combining her slayer duties with her 48-hour plus work schedule has been no easy task.  She's lucky sometimes to climb into bed before five in the morning.  This usually works because her shift doesn't begin until four in the afternoon.  Sometimes she feels as though she hasn't seen Dawn in years, though.  When she encounters her sister in the apartment they share, it's like, "Hello, stranger."

            It's late summer now and even in this late hour the air hangs heavy with a dewy humidity and her skin is drenched in it.  Occasionally there will be a stiff breeze, and she feels a chill, but it feels refreshing and cleansing to her, like a quick shower in the afternoon.

            The night is silent, except for the sound of the leaves clapping together in the wind.  Her hair blows in her face.  She is aware that she still smells like the Bronze.  That heady scent of curly fries, stale beer, and cigarette smoke.  She's certain that the vamps in town have caught onto to this new scent she's wearing.  They probably think it will make her a more delicious treat when she's eventually caught and killed.

            Presently there is the sound emanating somewhere from the ground.  It is the sound of earth being moved aside, torn away.  The ripping and tearing of freshly made grave.  She knows it well.

            She springs from the roof of the mausoleum, her stake clutched in her hand just as the vamps's torso emerges from the ground.  Oh, he's a heinous one, she notes.  And angry.  And for a moment, she understands.  If her family buried her in such an obviously polyester knit 1970's suit with lapels as wide as the Colorado River, she'd be mad too.  

            Having fully extracted himself from the ground, he rises to his full height.  He is twice her size and his arms are the size of fat, newly shorn sheep.  In his life he probably never even heard of the Slayer.  She feels compelled to introduce herself.

            "Welcome back,"  she says.  "I'm Buffy.  And this is your last night on earth."

            Her terse wording elicits a confused growl from the vamp.  Apparently, he's unaware that newly acquired immortality comes with a small price to pay, in that, eventually, all undead can count on at least a meet and greet with the tiny blond girl who wields a stake and fights like a fiend.

            She begins with a kick to the chest that doesn't land him on his back like she thought it would.  Instead, he's sort of thrown off kilter.  This one's going to require a little extra work, she quickly surmises.  But it's nothing she can't handle.

            She throws an upper-cut to his jaw.  Still nothing.  This is like fighting Chewbacca, she thinks to herself.  She doesn't give him time to recover.  She throws another, and another.  Her knuckles are burning from the punishment against his jaw, his cheek, and then, when all else fails, her lower abdomen.  Kidney punches are illegal in boxing, but Thank God they're fair game in slaying.  The one she throws doubles him in half.  She has him now.  With one blow to his chin with the toe of her shoe, he is now on his back.  In the pale moonlight, she sees his yellow eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.  

            She bends near him.  "I'm not normally this rude when I meet people for the first time, but, what can I say?  I was raised by wolves."  She raises the stake, readying to a deep plunge.  "But it's been nice meeting you."  And she sinks the stake into his heart.

            She sits for a moment, watching the wind pick up the dust the vamp has just left in the wake of his demise.  

            _Yeah, I may suck as a waitress, but I'm still the Slayer._

            The wind shifts.  Where it has been docile and barely perceptible before, all of a sudden, there is a blast of air and her hair flies around her face like thick cobwebs.  She gets to her feet immediately, the wind nearly knocking her down.  It seems there's going to be a storm, but the sky is cloudless and the moon in its fullness is surrounded by dozens and dozens of shining stars.

            She hears something.  A whisper.  It sounds human.  It sounds like her name.

            "Slayer…"  the voice says.

            She whips her head around in the direction of the voice.  She sees nothing.  But she can feel something pressing down on her.  A phantom, bearing down on her with a dark presence she has felt before.  She spins completely around, looking for the source of the voice, waiting to hear it again.  But there is nothing.  There is nothing but the sound of the wind dying down.

            Out of the corner of her eye, she sees something dark, something moving in the shadows.  Her heart leaps.  Her feet can barely keep pace with the orders she's mentally giving herself to run and catch up with it, whatever it is that she saw, whatever it was that called her name.  But clear paths are nearly impossible to find in this part of the cemetery where the population seems to be tripling everytime she enters.  She hops over each headstone, landing each time with the grace of a gymnast but the frustration of a doomed Javert.  Finally she is out of the thick of them.  She is near the entrance of the cemetery now.  There is no one around.  She is completely alone as she stands at the gates.

            So this is how he's going to play,  Buffy thinks as she enters the apartment building and slams the door behind her.  

            Even with the late hour, people are still awake.  In a nearby apartment a baby is testing his mother's instincts with a high-pitched wail and she hears a woman's voice give way to sobs.  The boys in 1E are listening to techno and she can see can smell incense burning inside.  She mounts the stairs, having noted that the elevator is out.  Again.

            She doesn't believe he has followed her home.  The last place she felt his presence was after he called her name.  And then it left.  She thought she saw it…him…but it could have been another headstone, turned black in the shadow of the one standing before it.  There's nothing trailing or haunting her now.  The footsteps she hears on the staircase are all her own.

            She undoes the locks on her door and notes that the super still hasn't put the peephole in as she has requested days before.  Now there's just a hole.  She clicks her tongue and pushes inside.

            Once inside, she flops down on a chair, her tip money rattling in her pocket.  She counts the bills, tiredly, carelessly.  She heard the other waitress mention that she had made $250 that night.  Buffy made…well, Buffy made considerably less than that.

            She had been distracted that night while she was working.  But her instincts had been keen in the cemetery.  She thought sometimes that if she could incorporate some of her Slayer intuitiveness into her waitressing, she might just be able to anticipate when table number six needs another Heineken.  But then she might get confused and start slaying, which, on some nights wouldn't be a bad thing.  It would get her fired, but she'd be striking a blow for the tired, underpaid wait staff of the world.

            She is alone in her apartment.  Dawn has probably been asleep for hours.  She could curl up and fall asleep right there, but…

            There are footsteps in the hall.

            She rises slightly from the chair, her ears curving around the noise of heavy, clunking steps on the carpeted floor outside.  She gets up.  She can't see anything from the peephole.  Cautiously, she undoes the lock just so she can peep out through the space the chain lock permits.  Still, she can see nothing.  She slams the door, unfastening the chain lock, throwing the door open wide.  She hears a door slam up the hall.  It was a neighbor, she comforts herself.  It wasn't him.

            Once the door is shut, she leans against it, breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly.  He doesn't know where she lives.  Yet.  There is the strangest thrill in her when she thinks about the day when he'll find out, when he might confront her here, catch her unaware.

            But for now, she is alone.

In the days that follow, the feeling of being alone is as completely foreign to Buffy as Icelandic currency.

            The next night at the Bronze, the bartender tells her casually, "Your friend was back again tonight."

            _Friend?  She thinks.  __Or fiend?_

            "What did he look like?"  she asks breathlessly.

            "I actually did good look at him this time,"  the bartender said.  "About yea high," he says, indicating a height just above his shoulders.  "But that's all I can tell you."

            "You didn't see his face?"  

            "That was the weird thing about him.  He was wearing a hooded cloak, like a monk."

            "Then how do you know it was him?"  

            "The voice.  It was the same British accent.  Sounded like in the same breath he was using to order his drink he could just as well be insulting or threatening me."

            Bingo, she says to herself.

            "Where did he go?"  she asks.

            "Table five.  Just the same as last night."

            She peers over at the table.  There's no one there.  The table is empty.  And so is the pint glass.

            A man wearing a hooded cloak shouldn't be too hard to find in this crowd, she says to herself.  But something tells her also he wouldn't make himself that obvious.  She's going to have to search for him.

            But all night, no one matching that description comes into view.  It's the same crowd as last night.  It's the same crowd as always.  Anya, Xander, Willow, and Tara even stop by to tell her what a good movie they saw and how much they missed her.

            The next night, she is asked to go into the walk in refrigerator to get some limes for the bar.   It's a busy Saturday night and the kitchen staff is rushing around, slapping things on plates without looking and screaming orders.  She is not acknowledged when she slips in the refrigerator door.

            The inside is completely sealed off from any outside noise.  She doesn't know where the limes are immediately.  Nothing is ever in the same place twice.  She notices a pan full of ground beef sitting right on the floor.  Health violation, she thinks.  She needs this job, so she stoops to pick it up and put it on one of the shelves.  As she's doing this, she notices that the door handle is turning, very slowly.

Her hands are still gripping the pan.  When the door suddenly swings open, she, drops the meat to the floor.

            In from the fluorescent light of the kitchen, she can see it's the head cook.  She scrambles for an explanation.  "I'm sorry.  I…I've been a little on edge lately,"  she says.

"You can take that out of my paycheck."

            The cook studies her carefully for a minute, hands on hips.  Then be bends and begins scooping up the meat by the fistful, cramming it back into the pan.  "I wouldn't worry about it.  The pan's probably no cleaner than the floor."

            She notes to herself, _I guess the threat of Mad Cow disease isn't the only reason to avoid the meat here._

The next night she goes down to the store room in the basement to get a can of bloody mary mix.  This is something she's done literally hundreds of times alone, without thinking.  But this night, she feels someone is tagging along, trailing her.

            She's been scouting around all week for the hooded figure.  And if such a person exists, he's blending better than one would think.  Sometimes she thinks he would be easier to spot if the whole club turned out for "Dress Like A Monk" night.

            But still, the presence is undeniable.  Threatening.  Exciting.

            There are no footsteps behind her, just the semblance of a being, stalking her with a beastly shadow.  As she descends the stairs, her heart begins to pound, not so much out of fear, but anticipation.  If he's going to confront her now, it'll probably be here.  And part of her hopes that this is where it all does come to a head.  She's tired of waiting, tired of being viewed through the long-lens longing of this presence, tired of being played.

            The basement is cold, tomb-like.  Overhead the ceiling booms with the bass beats of the music being played on the floor above.  Aside from that, she can hear her own breath, coming out in pants. 

            She is in the middle of the storeroom.  She feels the air grab her bare arms.  She allows herself to feel the presence.  She wants it.  She's calling to it by being alone, bating it.  She's vulnerable now.  She's JFK in the back of the limo in Dealy Plaza, moving slowly.

            She calls his name.  "Spike?"  It comes out a lot softer than she has anticipated.  She feels sort of foolish, like she's recalling the name of an imaginary friend she had when she was a child.

            She licks her lips and is embarrassed to find they are trembling.  Not with fright.  She is not afraid.  She has never been afraid of him.

            "Spike?"  she calls, louder this time.

            A door opens somewhere upstairs.  It is not the one to the basement, though.  She hears footsteps, but they are en masse.  It is the sound of a conglomeration of tracks being made as the DJ plays a record that summons everyone to the dance floor.

            She is alone after all.  The only other people are the ones upstairs, dancing.

            Releasing a long-held breath, she grabs the bloody mary mix and heads upstairs.

            But then comes Thursday.

            Buffy was called in on her day off.  This is enough to put her in a black mood, but it is made more intense by the fact that for almost a solid week she has been tracked by something she can't see.  This soldier in the jungle pursued by the lurking Viet Cong routine is growing old and tonight she's ready to Napalm the place.

            As she's loading up the tray for another walk-about through the bar, there is a break in the music.  

            "All right, all you Bronzers,"  the DJ says.  His voice sounds strained, as though he has recently strangled on something and is trying to recover his breath.   "I have just received a very special request.  This is going out from S to B.  _Southside_, by Moby with Gwen Stefani."

            The beginning beats of the track fill the room, fill every inch of floor space, every molecule of air.  In a short time, she is breathing the music.  It is the only thing that is sustaining her and she feels a sudden light-headedness as she begins to sway as the light begins to fade in front of her eyes.

            That memories of that night come rushing back to her with such intensity she feels she's right there again, in his arms.  He wasn't taking no for an answer that night.  He just took her.  She remembers the sound the door made when it came open, the look in his eyes as he stood there, knowing that she would be his that night.  And he knew this because the look she was giving him told him, yes, I will be yours.

            They had experienced just one night.  This song had played over and over while he touched her, while he explored the taste and feel of her skin.  While he kissed her all over.  While he entered her with the precision of a heat-seeking missile.

            Without saying a word to the bartender, she abandons her tray and runs.  She doesn't know where she's going and doesn't pay much heed to the bartender's increasingly hollow threats.  She's got to find him.  He's got to be there.  This is his clue.  He's ready to see her and he's ready to be seen.

            But if this is the case, he is not being entirely forthright.  Face after face turns to her in a gallery of looks that go from blank stares to frank peevishness.  She is calling his name now.  She doesn't feel so foolish now.  She knows he's there.  She _knows it._

            _Show yourself, you bastard.  Show me you're really here!  Why are you doing this to me?_  Her mind screams as she races now, up the stairs, to the upper tier of the dance floor.  It's darker up there, harder to see faces, place names to faces.  She doesn't know a soul, though.  Not a soul. 

            _Where are you, you soulless bastard!  You left me and now you've come back.  Do you think I'll be mad at you?  Do you think I'm going to stake you for leaving me and not even calling me to tell me where you were?  I was expecting that. _

_            She reaches for the stake concealed in the front pocket of her apron, jostling her tip money.  Dollar bills rain at her feet as she tears down the second staircase, leading down to the lower floor.  _

            People fly past her.  She can't even see them anymore.  The music blares.  It is almost over.  It's the last chorus.  There will be no repeats on this one.

Buffy pushes her way through the fire exit and finds herself out in the cool night, in the shadows of the alleyway.  Her heart is racing and she can't catch her breath.   She backs up against the wall and slides all the way down to the pavement.  She closes her eyes, dropping her head into her hands.  There are a million thoughts coursing through her bewildered head.  She is sick.  Her stomach is in knots and she feels at any minute she's going to retch.  

            But suddenly, the shadow she has been feeling all week is right over her.  It is right before her.  She opens her eyes.  Yes, he is there, right in front of her.  He is no longer a shadow.  He is real.  His features are obscured by the darkness of the alleyway, but when he speaks, there is no doubt in her mind who the shadow is and for whom the shadow has come.

            "Daddy's home,"  he says in a deep, teasing growl.

            She gets to her feet slowly, scraping her back against the wall as she does.  She doesn't know why she is so stunned.  She has known all along that it had to be him, stalking her, crouching over her, making her doubt her sanity.

            He opens his arms.  She wants to be in his arms, so badly.  She wants him to touch her, to hold her, to take her right there.  But before she loses her head, before she lets desire take her down one more time, she feels her hand curl into a fist and connect with his nose.

            He is cursing her now, holding his nose and stumbling in the dark.  But he soon shakes it off, the pain, the humiliation.  All with a smile.

            "Not the welcome I was hoping for,"  he says.

            "You told me you loved me,"   she says, punching him again.  "So you had to leave me!"  Her fist connects again with his nose.  "Because you knew it wouldn't work out."  And the second punch to the nose felt so good, there has to be a third in there somewhere.  And there is.  "You didn't write.  You didn't call.  You treated me just like you treated Harmony…"  She stops to consider what she has just said and rage fills her to bursting.  "And the fact that I just put myself in the same category as Harmony…"  This one deserves a kick…where it hurts most.  "Just exactly what were you expecting, Spike?"

            "Oh,"  he says, still smiling through the hurt.  "A little peck on the cheek.  A little understanding.  A little tenderness."

            "You want tenderness?  I'll tenderize you,"  she says, throwing another punch, this time across his back.

            As he struggles to recapture the wind that has just left his lungs, he rises slowly from his crouched position.  When he is finally able to speak, he says, "I didn't want to have to do this, but…"  

            She doesn't see his fist coming.  But she feels it, all across her face, down deep beneath the bones.  She's so shocked, she cannot speak; she cannot even begin to form any words except, "What the hell?"

            She views him over her hands as she fans her fingers across her bruising flesh.  He is smiling in his victory, loving the sight of her awareness that he's back in the game again.

            "Guess what's not a problem anymore?"  he asks teasingly.


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

She continues to stare at him in disbelief as many minutes clock by.  She cannot see his face in the darkness, but she senses a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his lips.  She is aware that every minute she is standing there, he could be gearing up for the kill.  She can't let that happen.  Not in the alleyway of the Bronze and her shift only half over.

            Without saying a word, her fist flies at his face and he flails awkwardly to steady himself.  She throws another punch, this time to his jaw.  He counters with a jab to her left cheek, which she in turn counteracts with a blow to his right cheek.  She has forgotten his power and his stamina, how unrelenting he can be when engaged in battle.  Though she has beaten him many, many times before, he's almost had her in his deadly clench as well.  But she senses tonight he is not going for the knock-out.  He is reintroducing himself into the ring.  This is his comeback.  

            She won't let up, not for a moment.  He is trading blows with her, matching the force, matching the precision.   They've always fought well.  Here, when engaged in battle, they understand each other most of all.

            "So is this why you came back?"  Buffy pants out, delivering another punch to his chin.  "To kill me?"

            "No,"  he grunts out as she returns a blow to his stomach.  "The chip may have left my head, but the love I have for you in my heart remains intact."

            She's had enough of the jabs and changes tactics, grabbing him by he arm and flinging him against the wall.  She bends his arm across his back, twisting until she can almost hear bones breaking.  Almost.  She can hear him wheeze, hear him weakening. Relief builds in her shoulders.  It's almost over, she says to herself.

            _Now what?_

"Then you came back to sire me?  Do what Dru did to you?  Make me your little love slave for all eternity?"  she breathes into his ear.

            He ushers a sickening, growling laugh through his parted lips.  "I've already done that, love."

            Oh, you dead, dead bastard, she thinks as her head thunders with new fury.  In one move, she grabs him by the arm and pitches him to the pavement.  There is moonlight on his face now.  She can see him, clearly, for the first time in six months.

            She doesn't let any sentimental thoughts betray what she has to do next.  She straddles him before he can scuttle away like a wounded crab and produces her stake.  She lets it hover over his heart, not quite making contact.  The executioner wants her prey to see the weapon that's going to send him out of this world and make him someone else's problem.

            "You're out of practice, Spike,"  she announces.  "This was too easy."

            "I know,"  he says.  "I wasn't really trying there at the end.  I just wanted to feel you on top of me again."  His hands creep up her backside and she turns crimson at his touch.  "Feels just as I remember."

            "Does this feel just as you remember?"  she says, jamming the stake closer to him,  piercing the leather of his black duster.

            "Definite familiarity there,"  he says in mid-groan.

            The moonlight reveals that his features have now left the realm of smugness and assuredness and are now hovering somewhere over fright and apology.  She digs the stake through the duster, endeavoring to drill right through his tee-shirt, right through his skin.

            "Wait, Slayer!"  he pleads, exhaling sharply at the touch of the stake.  "Slayer, don't do this.  Not until you hear what I have to say.  Not until I've had a chance to explain my whereabouts for these past six months."

            "I don't want to know,"  she says through gritted teeth.  "You were gone and you came back and for some dumbass reason you thought I'd be all,  'You got your chip out!  Great!  Here's my jugular as a reward for being such a good sport while you couldn't kill anyone.'"

            "Just let me tell you where I've been, what I've been doing."

            "I'm sure it's an epic story, Spike.  And it ends here."  She raises the stake in the air.

            She's got him so surely, so squarely certain.  His life is in her hands.  His death is in her precise aim at just the right spot in his chest.  Her heart is racing.  This is the moment of the kill.  The hairs stand up on the back of her neck.  There is always an odd arousal about this that goes beyond the sexual.  It's a rush, a demon-drip of adrenaline that courses through her veins and makes her feel her power through every atom of her being.  Her skin tingles from the sensation.  She raises the stake over its intended target.

            But before the weapon can come down for its fatal plunge, she sees his face break out into panic and for a moment she is terrified for him.  And in this brief moment in time that she allows herself to connect with him, she feels just as vulnerable as he must feel, pinned under her, awaiting death.  He's not a nameless vamp scrambling from a grave for his first kill.  He's not a skunky demon out for a night of prowling and vengeance.  He was once her greatest enemy and she has tried so many times to get him just where he is now.   He is completely helpless now.  And all she can think about is how much she wants to wipe the look of fear from his face and pull him to safety.

            "Slayer,"  he whispers.  There is a plea in his voice.  For mercy?  Understanding?  Pity?  

            She is no longer sitting on top of her long-time foe.  She is straddling her former lover.  The arms that are pinned under her legs once held her.  She has taken this creature to her bed.  She has allowed him to touch her, to put his lips to her lips, to her skin.  And she has touched him as well.  She knows the curves of his bold, strong pecs.  She knows the firmness of his abdomen.  She has defined it with her hands, with her mouth.  She knows his heart.  And in that heart is his love for her.

            Her hand falls to her side.  

            Buffy doesn't move for several minutes.  Spike remains prone and still.  In his eyes there is gratitude.  She doesn't graze over that look to long.

            As she lifts herself off him, she mutters in a tone that she hopes doesn't sound as defeated as it feels to say,  "Get up."

            He scrambles to do just that, hopping up straight into the air.  She doesn't turn her back to him.  She wants to make sure he is completely gone before she can turn her back.

            "Get out of here.  Now!"  she intones.

            He reaches out to her, "Buffy," he begins.

            She catches his hand as it's about to go for her shoulder.  "Get out of here and don't ever come around me again."  She is avoiding his eyes.  She is training her look somewhere between his chin and his mouth.  

            "Buffy, just hear me out this one time.  Just this once."

            She decides to give him a listen.  The stake hasn't left her hand.

            "I know I hurt you, love.  I know I've been perfectly awful to you.   I am aware that these six months have had a terrible toll on you.  And I'm to blame for the lot of it."

            "Don't flatter yourself,"  she says.

            He raises his hands to shush her.  "Buffy, if you just let me explain.  I've been to a lot of places in the past year.  A lot of places on the globe, a lot of places in myself I didn't know existed.  But I came back to you, love.  I told you when I left you I was going because I knew we couldn't make this work.  But I know something now.  Something I should have known then, but was too cowardly to accept."  His hand is now caressing her cheek.  And she is not moving away.  "I've got to make things work with you because it's the best thing I've ever had and will ever have for that matter.  You are why I exist, Buffy.  You are the love of my life."

            She is now looking into his eyes.  There is truth there.  And pain.  And love.  He is not mocking her.  He is not ingratiating himself for an apology.  He is stated the facts, purely and simply.  

            She is not standing in the alleyway of the Bronze now.  She is at the doorway of her house, trying to say good-bye to him, trying to let him go.  But she can't.  He's too much a part of her.  He's too much in her soul.  He has made her feel his love for him and she returns it in full measure.  

            _Then why is he saying good-bye?_

            Just then, the side door of the Bronze comes open.  An angry, booming voice bounces off the walls.

            "Buffy!  If your ass isn't in here in five seconds, you can turn in your apron and forget you ever had a job here!"

            His hand is still on her cheek, cold, yet comforting.  

            "I've got to go,"  she says.

            "I know,"  he says.  

            Now she turns away.  He remains where she left him as she heads for the door, tucking her stake back into her apron.

            "Buffy!"  he calls to her before her hand is on the door.  "The playground by the school,"  he says.  "Will you meet me there after your shift?"

            She nods her consent without even thinking as she fiddles with the sharp tip of the stake.

            "I'll be there,"  she says.

            _Now why am I doing this again?_

_            It's almost four o'clock in the morning as Buffy walks across town to the designated place.  Ass he walks by silent house after silent house, she realizes sleep is taking place all around her and she keenly feels the fatigue in her bones and the aches in her muscles.  _

            Tonight she has fought with Spike for the first time in years and for a while it felt like old home week.  Sometimes when they fought she was made more aware of her place in the world, her role in this life.  She was placed here to kill.  She has been trying to kill Spike for the past four years and with his finality so firmly in her grasp, she had let him go.  Why?

            She couldn't stand to see that look in his eye.  That hurt.  That plea.  Don't kill me, my love.  You'll regret it for the rest of your life, he seemed to be saying to her there at the end.  She knows why she let him go.  She had been in that position before, with a different lover, a different vamp.  She killed Angel just after his soul was restored and that action has haunted her, nearly hurled her into insanity's clutch.  When she was holding that stake above his heart, when she was so much in control that it seemed she had the power of every empire that ever ruled the world, she knew she was making a big mistake.  Spike came back for a reason.  It wasn't to kill her.  It wasn't to sire her.  What was it?

            She had to know.  And that is why she finds herself in a playground a little after four in the morning on a Friday.

            He is there waiting, by the swings.  He is pacing, smoking a cigarette.  She doesn't even have to announce her presence.  When she arrives, he knows.  And he comes to her.

            As he approaches her, his arms are open and she feels herself wanting to go into them.  _Oh, hold me…she's thinking to herself.  __I've missed you…He is returning these thoughts to her.  He is leaning his face to hers, the intention of a kiss coming nearer and nearer.   But just as he's about to make contact, she stiffens.  This is not the right time.  There are apologies that need to be made and dissected for their validity.  He knows this too and temporarily abandons hope for the touch of his lady love's lips on his, again with a smile.  He does everything with that smug, self-satisfied grin, whether he's endeavoring to murder someone or make someone a victim in another way entirely._

            "So we're not quite ready for the kiss and make-up bit yet,"  he drawls.  "I understand, love.  But you're here.   That's half the battle won, I suppose."

            "Spike, I'm tired and right now all I want to do is crawl into bed for the next fourteen hours.  You better make this quick."

            "Now, now, Slayer.  I've been gone for six months.  And what I've been through can't exactly be illustrated on the head of a pin.  You came here to find out where I've been and I'm here to tell you.  So sit down and wipe that petulant, I don't wanna be here look off your face.  We have to have a talk."

            There's a bench on the playground.  When school's in session, this is probably where the teachers sit while waiting out recess.  School won't start for another two weeks or so.  Preparations are being made for the students' return.  There's a bucket of paint by the teeter totter.  Buffy imagines that somewhere in Sunnydale children are counting down the days.  Summer's almost over.  And when school starts, this is where they will come to play and run around between learning ABC's and long division.

            Spike is leaning his elbows on his thighs.  His hands are folded together, almost in prayer.  He takes a breath and exhales in a blast of cold air.

            "I never thought I'd come back here,"  Spike says.  "When I left you that morning, I thought I was turning my back for good.  I remember looking at everything as though I were seeing the place for the last time.  Felt all sentimental, a little sad.  But I had to go.  There was no question.  And for a while I didn't know where I was going.  I just wandered from place to place, traveling by night.  In Flagstaff I found an abandoned car, hot wired it, and drove for the longest time.  I would find these long stretches of highway where I was completely alone for miles and miles and then, all of a sudden, another motorist would pass and I'd realize I wasn't alone.  It's odd, when you get it in your head that you're the only person in the world and then you see that other people do exist.  Other people with lives, other people who know other people who you will never know or encounter.  Or maybe you have and just don't know it."  He sighs.  "Well, enough of my treatise on loneliness.   On one of those highways, I found out why the car had been abandoned.  It was a piece of shit car that made me wish that Yugoslavia had never learned how to build motor.  It broke down on me.  It was a little bit before dawn.  I had been heading for a hotel that promised good accommodations, a fair price, and a swell continental breakfast in the morning.  I didn't quite make it.  And for a while, I didn't think I was going to make it at all.  The sun was coming up over the hills.  And I was in the bleeding desert.  I thought about starting off the in the direction of the hotel.  I grabbed the blanket, the one you have me.  But the sun was bursting on the horizon and I felt myself weakening.  I knew I was about to feel a kinship with the desert sand that you humans know nothing about.  I had to keep moving, though.  Moving targets are harder to hit, I kept reminding myself.  But eventually, it was too much for me, and I fell to the ground.  'Well this is it,' I told myself.  'This is where it all ends for William the Bloody, out in the desert, all alone.'  But then something happened.  I felt myself in a stranger's grasp.  I was being lifted.  I found myself being slung across the back of a horse and being carried rapidly away.  I thought this was rather amusing.  Old Spike being rescued by a knight in shining armor.  I must have passed out or something because I don't remember anything until I woke up on a tweedy sofa in the living room of someone's house.  There was an old man there, an old Indian.  Scared the piss out of me when I first saw him.  He was just sitting there, staring at me from across the room.  There was something brewing on the fire and he got up and spooned some in a mug for me.  He tried to feed it to me, but I refused.  I told him I needed blood.  He muttered something under his breath and I asked him what it was.  He told me, 'you are the one that stalks the night and knows no soul.'"  I said, 'Spot on, Geronimo.  Now get me some blood.'

            "Now, when most people learn that they have a vampire in their home, they're not exactly hospitable.  I was expecting the old man to grab something phallic and wooden and try to dust me right there, but he couldn't have been nicer.  In a short time, he did find me some blood---buffalo's blood.  Not as tasty and spicy as the wings, but quite satisfying.  So I drank and he talked."

            _And the night got deathly quiet and his face lost all expression/Said if you're going to play the game boy, you gotta learn to play it right…Buffy thinks tiredly._

            "So you wandered into a really bizarre Kenny Rogers movie of the week and found yourself in a wigwam,"  Buffy says.

            "It wasn't a wigwam, Slayer.  It was a house.  With walls and brick and everything.  Even a telly."

            "So why didn't the Indian kick you out of the house when he found out you were a vampire?"

            "He suspected I couldn't kill.  He wanted to know why.  I told him all about the job the government chaps did on Old Spike's noggin.  He could sympathize.  Apparently he had seen his share of ill treatment from the government as well.  He explained his tribe had once numbered in the thousands.  He and about a dozen others were all that was left.  They had originated from Tennessee and were sent west in the early eighteen hundreds.  Those who could adapt flourished, and those who couldn't died.  His great great grandfather had been a medicine man, he said.  Once a devastating fever went through his tribe and he saved everyone with a combination of herbs and desert flowers.  But he was killed by some cavalrymen out for a game of spook the Indians.  He said many of his fellow tribesmen, the ones that were left, were scattered about.  Some of reservations, some in the suburbs.  He kept his homeplace there in the desert.  He had lived alone for the better part of his seventy-odd years.

            "He wanted to know the nature of the chip.  What it did to me.  I told him about the pain, the excruciating pain every time I tried to even make a fist at another human being.  He told me that was nonsense.  The machinery in my head had nothing to do with the fact that I couldn't kill or defend myself if attacked.  If I couldn't extract the chip from my head I had to live with the consequences of my violent actions.  And I thought, well, duh, that's what I'd been doin' all along.   But then he told me something.  He said that I had been giving too much credence to the control the chip had over my actions.  He taught me a little trick that his people had used when they were tortured by the bloody soldiers who invaded the plain with their eyes on Manifest Destiny.  He told me that I had to pull myself out of my body to endure the pain.  I had to leave my body if I wanted to let go of what was hurting me.  Sounded like a lot of rubbish to me.  Until he demonstrated it to me.  He went over to the fire and put his hand right in the flames and held it there for minutes.  I could smell the odor of burning flesh and hair.  I could hear the sizzle of his skin giving away to blisters and blood.  But he just stood there, calmly, watching me.  He removed his hand from the flame.  There was nothing but pulp there at the end of his wrist.  He prepared a potion of medicinal herbs and simmered it over the fire for the rest of the evening.  And when applied, the salve restored his flesh.  He cured himself.  I thought I had met the most invulnerable human being I would ever meet.  And for a moment, I was terrified, because I knew there was nothing I could do to this man to hurt him."

            Spike rises from the bench.  He is now pacing slowly, stubbing the toe of his boot into the ground, shoving his hands into his pockets.  

            "I had to learn how to do this.  I wanted him to teach me.  He cautioned me that spirituality is what brings the calm, and my spirit was long gone.  But I wanted to give it a try anyway.  He told me that I had to imagine that I was heading for the sky.  That the skies were opening for me.  That I had the freedom of flight and that I could embrace the heavens.  I had to steal a part of the sun, which made me uneasy.  But it turned out, all I had to do was envision the sun and its beams, not actually go near it.  I hadn't felt the warmth of the sun in ages, but I did as instructed and an amazing thing happened.  I did feel the sun.  I did feel warmth on my skin.  Almost in my soul…" he trails off.  It sounds like his voice is breaking.  "I felt as brilliant as a diamond.  I took a swing at the Indian.  And I did not feel anything but my fist connecting with his face."

            He is not looking at her as he is speaking.  It is as though he has forgotten that she is there, listening to his monologue.  On the stage alone, the actor has forgotten his audience.

            "Now, this is the sort of thing that takes practice, takes time.  It's an acquired art.  So I tried to be patient.  Every day I worked on drawing myself out of my body.  At first it took nearly five minutes.  A long wait for someone about to engage himself in battle.  But eventually I got it down to seconds.  I couldn't believe how well it worked.  And neither could the Indian." 

            There is a look now on Spike's face of bitter remembrance.  Buffy knows instantly what this is.  

            "You killed him, didn't you?"

            He studies her for a minute, trying to gauge what her reaction will be when he tells her the truth.

            "Well…yeah,"  he says.  "It was the desert and I was a bit parched.  Then I stole his horse and rode away.  So now it can truly be said that I've been through the desert on a horse with no name.  Although I think this one did.  Can't remember what it was, though."  

            Now she doesn't know why she has come at all.  And she doesn't know why he is so happy about revealing to her that he is a killer again.  There has to be something else, she tells herself.  She had him at death's door earlier that night and it wouldn't take much to drag him back to that threshold again.

            "So let me guess, after you discovered you could kill again, you went on a big spree and eliminated a good chunk of California's populace,"  she says.

In a sudden movement that takes her aback, he is on his knees in front of her.  His hands are on her thighs, rubbing gently.  His face is right before hers.  On his breath is flesh and blood and she breathes it in with disgust.

            "One would think.  But that didn't happen.  I found that I could use to same tactics the Indian taught me to alleviate my pain to ward off my urge to kill.  I didn't have to kill.  I only have to kill when I need to."

            "That still makes you a killer,"  she says.

            "But I don't have to be,"  he says.  "It's all up to you.  All you have to do is say four little words, love."  He leans into her, searching for her ear.  He is dangerously close to her neck, she realizes.  But she doesn't feel teeth there.  Only his breath mingled in a sigh.  "I want you back."

            He is letting his lips linger by her ear, broadcasting his longing for her in harsh, violent breaths.  He is smelling her hair.  His hands are in her hair now, stroking the long locks from scalp to tips.  He is bringing her face to his.  But there's not a kiss yet.  He wants it.  He knows she wants it.  But there's more to say.  He wants her to hear everything, to know everything.

            "Sometimes at night," he says softly.  "I'd wake after dreaming about you.  I could feel you right there with me.  And when I came back into consciousness, and realized you weren't there, I ached with desire for you.  You were so far away.  I had been with you, you were so close.  I wanted to feel that closeness again.  I nearly howled at the unfairness of it all.  I'd clutch the empty space beside me, wanting so much to feel your body there.  I wanted you beside me, under me.  I wanted to touch you so badly.  I couldn't torture myself any longer.  I had to come back to you.  Right or wrong, I needed what we had.  The memory of that night was too potent.  I wanted it all back.  I wanted to be with you again.  So I came back."  

Without thinking, she has parted her legs and his is embracing her.  She has not yet found the courage to hold him.  Her arms remain at her side.  His hands are all over her back.  Now she does feel his kiss, right by her ear.  Then on her cheek.  Hips lips are moving quickly.  Soon they will be on her mouth.  She knows this and her heart begins to pound.  Now they are kissing.  And she is holding him.  Her arms do this without her consent.  His touch is too much of a reminder of that one night.  She wants it.  She wants it badly enough that she is saying his name as she pulls him close.

His hands are going down her back, discovering the brevity of her tee shirt.  He raises it slowly as his fingers glide under her bra strap.

"You remember this?"  his voice curls seductively into her ear.  

She does.  Too well.

His hands are fully under her bra now.  She has allowed enough space for him to maneuver his hands around to the other side.  He squeezes and releases her bare breasts and she moans.  Her tee shirt is up around her shoulders now.  The night air is prickling her nipples as he tastes them with his mouth and leaves them damp and exposed.  

Now his hands are gliding down her stomach.  She feels his fingers playing with the elastic on her underwear.  They find easy access once the snap of her jeans is undone and the zipper is lowered.  He is caressing her inner flesh, eliciting moans from her that she has been storing for months.

"And you remember this, too?"  

Oh, she remembers.  She lets her head fall back.  But as she does this, cold air rushes against her neck.  His mouth!  She thinks instantly.  No, it's not there.  But it is enough of a scare to wake her, to snatch her from the clutches of this erotic dream made real by the presence of her former lover and foe.

Her hands push against his shoulders.  In one shove, he is on the ground in front of her, looking stunned.

She rearranges her shirt, tucking everything in where it should be.

"Yeah, I remember,"  she says.  "But I also remember the last six months."

And with that, she walks away.


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

            "Guys, I've got some news,"  Buffy says to the Scoobies the next afternoon.  She has just finished training and her clothes are sweaty and she's wondering if her friends are noticing the sopping wet rings under her arms.  She thinks at least Anya is because she has seen her nose wrinkle a couple of times.  Maybe I stink, she thinks to herself.  "We've got the Big Bad to deal with again."

            "Which one?"  Willow asks.

            "The one who likes to think of himself as the original Big Bad.  El Capo de tutti capi of the Big Bads.  The Grand Poobah of the Big Bads.  The Merchant of Big Badedness."  She hopes her friends will get what she's trying to say, because she's running out of euphemisms.  

            "Oh!"  Xander says.  "Has my former roommate blown back into town?  And he didn't even bother to come by and say hello.  Well, that's friendship for you.  See if I ever commiserate with him over a game of pool again."

            Giles is scowling while he shakes his head slowly.  "I knew he couldn't stay away for long."  He is trying to engage Buffy with his eyes, but she is not looking in his direction. 

            "But there's something you should know about him,"  Buffy says.

            "He's got an evil twin,"  Xander says.  "No!  Wait!  He's your twin brother!"  When his remarks are met with annoyed glances, he feels the need to explain.  "Sorry.  Anya and I were doing the _Star Wars_ trilogy thing yesterday."

            "All six and a half hours,"  Anya says bitterly.

            "It still really bothers me that Obi Wan didn't tell Luke about Leia being his sister.  I mean, the guy's living in a desert, harvesting dirt crops and eating what looks like very soggy cornflakes.  He meets this groovy princess who packs heat and doesn't wear a bra.  There's an attraction there…"  He shakes his head.  "I know because of the whole mythology thing, Luke couldn't know about Daddy Darth yet, but surely he could have been let in on the whole sister Leia thing before he started thinking about what she looked like out of her white dress.  Or how good she looked in the iron bikini."

            "Honey, that's the fifth time you've mentioned Leia and her iron bikini since last night,"  Anya says.  "Am I going to have to go out and buy one of those for you?"

            "Please?"  Xander says.

            Buffy is standing silent with her lips pursed, looking like an irritated professor whose lecture has been interrupted by some students' noisy note passing.  

            "Sorry, Buffy.  You were saying?"  Xander says.

            "Guys, this is serious.  I know it's been a while since we've thought of Spike being a threat.  It's kind of hard to take a villain seriously when he's wearing one of Xander's Hawaiian shirts, but."  She takes a breath.  "All I'm saying is, The Initiative's peroxided guinea pig is back to his former self."

            Those gathered around the table exchange baffled looks.

            Finally Willow speaks.  "No chip?"

            "Chip is still there, but not a big problem any more.  Apparently, he's found a way to control the pain now."

            "How did you find this out?"  Giles asks.

            "The hard way.  We fought."

            "And you won?"  Willow asks.

            "I'm standing here speaking to you now, aren't I?"

            "And you didn't kill him?"  Xander asks.

            "No,"  Buffy returns slowly.  _They're going to want to know why and none of them knows what went on six months ago…_She knows then that she should have killed him.  She is staring at five reasons to have plunged the stake in his chest.  But while she had the stake in her hand, the reasons against killing him were too clear.  She can see the fear building in their eyes.  She knows what they're thinking.  He's spent all these years under the control of the chip.  Now he's going to unleash a reign of terror not seen since the days of the French Revolution.    They've been mean to him.  Brutal.  Almost as evil as he has been to them.   He's going to want revenge.  All their necks are prime targets.  She should have beheaded that platinum blond Robespierre before a single innocent head fell into the basket.

            _I'm supposed to keep them safe.  They count on me.  And in a moment of weakness I failed.  I should have remembered _them_, not _him_…_

"It's the Dawn thing, isn't it?"  Willow asks.

            "What?"  Buffy asks.

            "The Dawn thing.  He took care of Dawn after your mother died.  That's why you couldn't kill him."

            She shrugs her shoulders.  "That must have been it,"  she says.  At that moment, she does look at Giles.  He is fixing her with a cold, soul-searching stare.  Sometimes she wishes he couldn't read her so well.  Apparently there is no off position on the Watcher switch.

            "So,"  she says.  "If you see him, don't think he won't attack.  Keep your crossbows handy, avoid going out alone at night, and keep your de-invite spells in good repair.

            "And darn it, Anya and I were going to have him over for brisket,"  Xander says.

            Buffy is still aware that Giles is looking at her.  She stares off in another direction, twisting one foot into the ground.  "I don't think that he will hurt you, though.  He says he can control his need to feed now.  And he knows what will happen if he goes near any of you."

            "Does he?"  Giles says under his breath.

            But it is loud enough for Buffy to hear.  And feel.

            After the meeting is over, Giles draws Buffy aside.  She is expecting this.  She knows it's lecture time.

            "Buffy, I never did inform the others of what went on between you and Spike after your mother's death.  Mostly because I am not completely certain of all the details and I'm not one to spread rumors and innuendo, but…"

            "You want to know if I still have feelings for him,"  Buffy says.

            "Do you?"  he asks, relieved that she has filled in the blanks for him.

            She hesitates before answering, aware that he is going to weigh everything she says with a rather accurate scale.  "There was some sparkage,"  she says.

            "Buffy…"

            "I know, I know, I KNOW what you're going to say.  I should just leave him alone.  I should just stay away from him.  Shouldn't encourage him.  You know, in the time he's been gone, I have been trying to forget I ever went near him.  He told me he was gone for good and I accepted that.  But then when I saw him, all the old emotions came flooding back.  The kind a Slayer isn't supposed to have for a vampire."

            "Good Lord, Buffy.  Obviously I am missing something here.  How could you possibly feel any affection towards someone who's made being evil and vile his unlife's quest?  Think about all the terrible predicaments he's put your friends through.  Think about the terrible predicaments he's put you through."  He pauses briefly.  "Did you at least try and kill him?"

            "I did.  The stake right there, ready for action.  But I couldn't do it…I just couldn't.  I saw something in his eyes.  And in his heart."

            "What sort of hold does he have on you, Buffy?"

            She is remembering what transpired on the bench in the playground.  This she will not share with her Watcher.  "I don't know.  But it's there.  He told me he wouldn't kill if I took him back."

            "Do you believe him?"

            "I'd like to.  But I've got some trust issues right now."

"I didn't think it was possible, but I do believe he's far more dangerous loving you than he ever was when he was trying to up the tally of his Slayer kills."  He touches her arm.  He is afraid for her.  She hasn't seen him look this worried for a long time.  Fatherly concern consumes his features as he speaks to her.  "Please, Buffy.  I trust you to do the right thing."

She has always been trusted to do the right thing and it's starting to get on her nerves.

"I will, Giles."

"You still got the de-invite spell on your apartment,"  he says.  "Don't let him convince you that he deserves admittance."

"I don't think he knows where I live yet."  

At least she thinks.

When Buffy arrives home, all she wants to do is get out of her sweaty, clingy clothes and jump in the shower for about a half an hour.   She is so ready for the steam and the pulsating rhythm of the water hitting her skin, she heads straight for the bathroom the minute she enters her apartment.  But something stops her.  She is aware of voices.  Her sister's and…

He is in the apartment.  She hears his voice.  His loud, braying laughter with Dawn's girlish giggles intermixed.  They are in her sister's bedroom.

The door is slightly ajar.  She peeks in to find them sitting on the floor.  Dawn is opening her CD player, about to insert a disk.

"You'll like this one.  It has some really rare live tracks that you can't get anywhere anymore,"  Spike is saying.  "I actually saw this show.  I could tell that Sid was on his way out.  I wanted to help him, but I thought about all the heroin in his blood.  Didn't want to become a regular commuter on the smack train like he was."

"They were so ugly,"  Dawn says.  "Look at all the scratch marks on this guys chest.  Did he have a cat or something?"

"He liked to cut himself, I hear.  Liked the pain and the adrenaline and all."

"Ewww…."

A this point, Dawn happens to notice her sister at the door way.  "Oh, Buffy!  Look who's back!"

Spike has followed Dawn's glance.  He is smiling now.   _Yes, love.  I am back in the fold_, he seems to be saying.

"Yes, I see,"  she says, straining her works through gnashed teeth.

"He brought me all these CD's.  I am so over that whole *NSYNC deal.  Those guys were such butt munches.  I finally got to see them in concert and went back stage.  They were like, so immature and stuff.  I felt like I was in junior high again."

"Oh, that's right.  You're going into high school this year,"  Spike says.

"Two more weeks,"  she says proudly.

"Well, at least the blokes who built this new school had the good sense not to build on a hellmouth.  I've been there.  There's no evil there.  Just a lot of wankers wearing oversized jeans and bints with nose rings."

"Spike, may I see you for a moment?"  Buffy says.

"Certainly, love."  He jumps up from the floor.  "Be right back, Little Bit.  Big sis and I have some catching up to do as well."

When she gets him out in the hall and out of earshot of Dawn, who is now cranking up the CD player, she slams him against the wall.

"How did you find me?"  she asks, holding his shoulders firmly against the wall.

"Wasn't too hard, Slayer.  I went to your old place.  An old lady answered the door.  I thought to myself, well, either the Slayer has aged overnight---and not very well, I might add---or she's not here anymore.  The kindly old woman,  Bev something or another, I believe, informed me that she didn't know of your whereabouts, but thought you might be living in Sunnydale Heights.  I thought to myself, 'Buffy?  In the projects?'  And I didn't believe it until I came here and saw your name on the mailbox for this apartment."

"You didn't---

"No, I didn't lay a finger on that lady's poor gray head.  She was rather puzzled by my appearance.  Thought I was a monk, I believe.  Have you seen my new cowl?  The Indian stitched it together for me out of the blanket you gave me. It---

She forces him against the wall again, letting his head bounce off the plaster.  "Spike!  Let me make one thing perfectly clear.  You are not welcome here.  I don't know what you did to get Dawn to invite you in, but I'm going to undo it."

"Little Bits was happy to see me,"  Spike says.  "She hugged me and everything.  Told me she missed me.  Which was more than I got from you.  And I didn't sleep with her."

"Spike, do you feel what's under your feet?  It's thin ice.  And you're treading on it."

"Ooooh.  What are you gonna do, Slayer?  Stake me?  Are you gonna dust old Spike right here in your clean and neat flat?  You couldn't do it last night, could you?  I thought, here's my only love in the world, who happens to be the only girl in the world who can hand me a death sentence, and she can't bring herself to do it.  She can't do it because she loves me.  She doesn't know it.  Can't accept it.  But can't fight it either."

She is trying to block out what he is saying.  Trying.  She is trying to concentrate on the music coming from Dawn's stereo.  It sounds so odd after all these years of hearing songs that contain so many repetitions of the word baby, she has once considered calling Dawn's room the nursery.

His arms are coming around her.  His words are encircling her in his spell as well.  _What sort of hold does he have on you_, _Buffy_?  Giles had asked that afternoon.  She can't define it, can't point it out with any accuracy, but it's so powerful that when he touches her, she can't think of anything else.

"Do you think I risked my life today so that I could bring Dawn some old CD's?  Do you?  As good as it was to see her again, there was only one reason I came here.  I want what we had six months ago.  I want it so bad I'm willing to test the mid-day's sun's heat, feel the flames, just for your touch.  Just for your scent.  Just for you."  She can feel his hands in his hair now.  "I know why I was wandering for those six months.  I didn't have you to keep me centered.  I didn't have my anchor.  You're the only one who makes everything clear to me.  Gives the world meaning.  Lying beside you, as your lover…that is the one thought that consumed me the whole time I was away.  It was the one thought I couldn't put out of my head no matter how I tried.  Every time I killed, I hated myself.  She would hate me for doing this, I said to myself whenever my teeth sank deep into some anonymous neck.  The blood would trickle into my mouth.  I would taste it, embrace all its sweet sustenance.  But I'd think, Buffy wouldn't like this.  She's turned me into an Angel clone.  And though the thought of being an Angel clone is as distasteful to me as a pitcher full of buttermilk, I considered perhaps that's not such a bad thing, considering you loved him.  You tamed the bad boy in him.  You've done the same for me, love.  I am totally and completely whipped.  And if you think that this is something someone like myself admits to on a day to day basis, without some sort of reward waiting in the wings, you've got another thing coming."

 She can feel that a kiss is coming and she is preparing her lips for it.  She wants it, a little.  No, she wants it bad.

"But I can tell you're not quite ready to take me back," he says, in the voice of reason once again.   "I can be a patient fellow.  Contrary to popular belief.  You say the word, love.  And I'll be back in your arms where I belong."  He kisses her forehead.  "Forever."

She is standing there, still in his arms, still wondering why she is there.  There is such yearning in her that she is about to come out of her own skin.  As he moves away, there is an urge to do something.  Grab a weapon.  Dispatch him quick with his back turned so that she doesn't have to see his eyes.  But she does nothing.  

"Dawn, I'll be back for the CD's later,"  Spike calls.

"You leavin?"  her voice trails from the bedroom.

"'Fraid so, Little Bit."

"Aww…"

The music stops and Dawn rushes out of the room into the hallway.  She runs to him and Buffy watches in befuddlement as her sister's arms go around Spike's torso.  Spike is watching Buffy with a triumphant smile beaming from his face.

"When are you coming back?"  she asks, a wide-eyed plea on her upturned face.

"That's up to your sister, Little Bit.  Ask her,"  he says.  "For now, I've got to run."

Both watch as he collects his cloak from the chair beside the door and exits in a flowing stream of black.

            "So when is he coming back?"  Dawn asks.  "I had forgotten how much fun he is.  He was just killing me in there."

            Buffy looks at her sister's innocent face.  She doesn't know, she thinks.  And I don't know how to tell her.

            But she knows what to do next.

            She goes to the phone.

            "Buffy, what are you doing?"  Dawn asks.  When her sister doesn't answer her, she asks, "Buffy, who are you calling?"

            Buffy ignores her sister and listens to the rings.  One, two, three.  And then a message.  "Hi, you've reached Willow and Tara's place.  Leave a message at the beep.  Thanks!"

            Buffy clears her throat.  "Willow and Tara, it's Buffy.  I need you to restore the de-invite spell on the apartment as soon as possible.  As soon as you get this message."

            Dawn's mouth flies open wide.  "Buffy!  Why?"

            Buffy sets the phone down gently.  She turns to her sister.  Dawn, so trusting, so sweetly unaware that she has just invited a killer into the house.  

            "Oh, honey…"  she begins as she lays a hand on the side of her sister's face.  "There's something you should know."

            She doesn't see him that night.  And she doesn't hear from Willow and Tara.

            The next night she is at the Bronze.  It's her fourteenth night in a row.  She loves the overtime, but hates the fact that she has no life.  She waits from the phone call from management, telling her that she has to come in because someone else has quit.

            There's a lot to do, always.  Enough to make her think that waitresses deserve CEO's salaries.  It's mindless work, mostly.  She misses her college days sometimes.  However brief they were.  Her mind was engaged then.  She thought about taking up a history major.  Or an English major.  Psychology, until Maggie Walsh ruined that for her.

            Buffy wonders why she hasn't seen Spike.  Why he didn't show up at her apartment, knowing he had been invited in.  She fully expected to see him waiting for her last night, when she got home.  But that wasn't so.  

            "Now this goes to table number 12,"  the bartender enunciates clearly.  "That's table 1-2"

            "I hear you,"  Buffy says, visibly offended as she hoists the tray over her head.  "I'm clueless sometimes, not deaf."

            She takes the drinks to the designated table.  She has another drink order for the bartender.  But he is busy.  She places the tray between herself and the bar,  rocking against it.

            And that's when she spots him.

            Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a blond head.  He is over by the very end of the bar.  And he is talking to a girl.

            Buffy doesn't know who this girl is.  She has been to the bar before.  Not very often.  She is not a regular.  But she has been there enough for Buffy to know that the girl is about twenty-something and still ID-able.

            The girl is wearing a halter-top.  A plunging neckline so deep that Jennifer Lopez wouldn't dare wear it.  She is all alone.  It is so evident that she is there to pick up men that she may as well be holding a sign that says, "Will give blow jobs for drinks."

            "Buffy, this goes to table fourteen, that's 1-4," the bartender says.  

            _How could she fall for him?  He's so obviously out for a scrump,_ Buffy thinks to herself_.  Or worse_.

            "Buffy?  Table fourteen?"  the bartender says.

            "Yeah, yeah.  I'm getting to it,"  Buffy says, not taking her eyes off the girl.  But she has to train her eyes elsewhere as she looks for the table.  It's at the other side of the  room.  _Don't go anywhere until I'm back_, she threatens him in her head.

            She goes off in search of her thirsty customers.  And when she returns, the girl has disappeared.

            _Oh, God_, she thinks.  _He's taken her off somewhere.  He's convinced her that he's a decent guy and now she's dinner._

            But then she sees them.  They're out on the dance floor.  The girl is still holding her beer.  He is too.  They are drinking together.  And her hips begin to grind into his.

He is whispering things to her.  She laughs and grinds deeper into him, slapping his arm playfully.

            "Buffy, table number fifteen,"  the bartender says.  "Number 1-5."

            "OK, OK,"  she says, hefting the tray over her head.  She turns to see that Spike and his decidedly pixilated flavor of the night are now fully engaged in foreplay right there on the dance floor.

            _I can see why.  He's damn sexy.  No, he's not!  He's not sexy!  Being a killer doesn't make you sexy!  Yeah, those followers of Charles Manson thought he was Jesus.  But they don't think that now that they're in prison for life…_

            She returns to the bar.  The girl and Spike are still together.  He is either pretending that he doesn't see her, or pretending that he doesn't care.  He hasn't made eye contact with her yet.  She doesn't know what he's thinking.  No, she knows what he's thinking.  I'm going to make the Slayer jealous, he is thinking.

            "I need a Bloody Mary and two shots of tequila for table twelve,"  Buffy says.

            The bartender has his back turned.  He is tallying up a bar tab and is seemingly astounded by the final amount he is coming up with.

            "Bloody Mary?  Two shots of tequila… sometime soon?"  she says again.  

            "In a second, Buffy,"  the bartender says.

            His consternation over the tally provides her with an opportunity to view the dancers of the floor.  Spike is still fully entwined with his newfound sweetie.  He does look hot in his black ensemble.  He does look sexy, always.  He moves sexily, he talks sexily, and he entices sexily…

            Spike's face comes down around the girl's neck area. Buffy sees this happening, even though the girl is perfectly oblivious, so grateful that she's found someone to hold onto when drunkenness becomes the order of the evening.

            Buffy forces her way onto the dance floor.  The couples that have joined forces in their ardor look at her in exasperation as she pushes through.  She finds them, solidly together.  He is caressing her backside.   She is touching his as well.

            "Excuse me,"  Buffy says, tapping a finger on the girl's shoulder.

            The girl is slow to respond.  But Spike sees Buffy right away.  He has been noticing her all night, her aggravation that there is someone else in the world he might be keen on spending the night with.

            "Hey,"  the girl says,  "We didn't order anything."

            "I did,"  Spike says, spinning the girl off in another direction.  He grabs for Buffy.  She finds herself against him as the song ends and another song begins.  "This is exactly what I ordered."

            The song begins.  It's an old one, by Depeche Mode.  Buffy listened to it when she was about ten.  It was just about the first song she ever knew.  It didn't mean anything to her then.  But it does now.

            _Words like violence_

_            Break the silence_

_            Come crashing in_

_            Into my little world_

_            Painful to me_

_            Pierce right through me_

_            Can't you understand_

_            Oh, my little girl_

He grasps her firmly, unrelentingly.  She feels the beat of the tune.  She feels him against her.

            _All I ever wanted_

_            All I ever needed_

_            Is here in my arms_

_            Words are very unnecessary_

_            They can only do harm_

"You feel so good against me,"  Spike says to her.  "So bloody good."

She is aware of the hardness imposing itself against her pelvic region.  His lips are on hers now in a fierce clench, tearing away at mouth.  She again feels that loss of all sensibility, with arguments ranting through her head, but no one there to hear them.  All urges she has to do the right thing, as Giles has trusted her so whole-heartedly to do, fall by the wayside.  The creature inside of him when he's wearing his human face is not even given a second glance.  In his kiss, there is humanity, there is passion, and there is goodness.  

His mouth moves away from hers.  Her eyes are still closed when she feels his lips' absence.  They open to find him licking the corners of his mouth, tasting her, she is sure.

And then his lips are on hers again.  His hands as well.  And she hears him say, "Oh, Buffy, I want you…I want you so bad…."

"I want you too,"  she stutters out as he forces himself against her even more.   

"When can you get away from here?" he asks her, letting his bottom lip drag on her earlobe.

She is thinking.  She is supposed to close tonight.  She can always ask the other waitress to cover for her.  Do double duty.  Buffy can make up for it.  Everyone knows she needs the money and that she'll do anything to remain on.  And she's done countless favors for the other girl, when she was too hungover to come to work.  Like the last week…

There are three waitresses patrolling the tables this night.  Any two can handle the crowd, she is sure. Buffy's handled both floors some nights with a crowd this light.  It's late summer.  People are suddenly away.  There's an urgency to the end of summer and those who are embracing these final days before the Jerry Lewis Telathon are off at beach resorts.  Not in Sunnydale.

It's almost 11:00 pm.  She could leave.  Closing time is in three hours.

"Wait a minute,"  she says.

She leaves Spike in the center of the dance floor as she searches for the waitress who owes her a favor.  He sways all alone on the floor, swigging his beer, fully expecting her to return with bad news.  And then he would have to kill.

But in moments, she is back of the floor, back in his arms.

"We can go to my apartment,"  she says.  

"Now?"  he asks.

"Now," she reaffirms.

They are walking through the firedoor, out into the alleyway.  The night air is cool in comparison to the heat of the dance floor.   Anything is cool in comparison to the heat on the dance floor.  A fiery furnace, a vacation on the sun, the pits of hell…

But as they are walking, hand in hand, something changes.  She can sense it brewing but can do nothing to alter the course.   She is slammed against the brick wall of the Bronze, right there in the alley.  She feels the coolness of the brick.  And then she feels his mouth against her neck.  All it takes it one little slip up, she had been reminded over and over.  This is it, she tells herself.  This is how it ends.  Spike can add

Slayer #3 to his resume.

            But on her neck now, she doesn't feel his teeth.  Instead, there is the feather-light touch of his lips.  He moans against her.

            "Slayer…" he says.

            There's no time to get home.  He is fiddling with the snap on her shorts. She helps him as his mouth crashes against hers.  She feels her panties being lowered, falling just below her knees.  They feel so warm.  Then she feels the coldness of the wall against her exposed posterior.  

            He is inside her.  Unceremoniously.  She gasps at his entrance.  Had she known it would be here, she would have steeled herself against the penetration.  But she's been wet since she first sensed he was in town.  She's been waiting for him.

            She is against the wall, with him deep inside her.  She is reacquainting herself with his muscles.   His arms are so large and so strong.   And his back muscles.  She could feel them forever.  They are the asps' neck expansion as he poisons her once again.

            She hugs her inner muscles against him.  

            "Oh, I've missed this," he utters in a whisper.  "Oh, God, I've missed this."  He kisses her violently.  She squeezes him again.  "Oh, God, you're so good."

            "Did you come back just for this?"  she asks as she clamps down on him once again.

            He groans as he repositions his hands on the wall.  "No, I came back because…" he feels her closing in around him again, tighter than before.  "Oh, God…I love you more than anything in the world."

            "More than blood?"  she says, as her muscles clench again.  

            She wonders if he has broken him.  He remains still for several minutes before he resumes the assault.  

            "More than blood,"  he says in a promising voice.

            He feels her legs against his backside.  Her arms are around him as she calls his name.  He has pulled her tee shirt; her bra as well.  He kisses her breasts.  He can't get enough of her breasts.  They are suddenly the most delicious treats in the world to him.  But he feels the terror in her as well.  The terror when she knows she treading so close to death.   She knows that at any minute there can be a sea change and his fangs can be in her as sure as he is in her now and she thrills at the danger.

            When he is done and she is nearly slipping from the wall onto the ground, she whispers into his ear, "Spike, promise me something…"

            "Anything," he says as he's feeling everything he has stored inside of him going directly into her.

            "Promise me you won't kill."

            "I won't.  Ever,"  he says, kissing her.

            "You won't kill?"  She is surprised by this.  Or she is surprised by the honesty in his voice.

            "I won't kill,"   he says.  "I promise."

            As he remains inside her, as he leans heavily against her, kissing her neck, but never coming close to inserting an incisor, she believes him.


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

            It is morning.  

Through the open window comes the sound of the garbage truck collecting, what sounds like, every bit of trash on the West Coast.  Buffy wrestles with trying to shut out the noise and concentrate on getting some more shuteye.  She feels exhaustion weighing down her bones and her eyelids as she tries to squeeze out the light.  She is shivering now.  There is something cold beside her.  She opens her eyes for the briefest second, just long enough to see him lying there, staring at her.

            He has stayed the night.  The whole, long night.  At one point the heavens opened up and there was rain on the roof and on the window.  A giant thunderclap sounded and left the earth quaking.  It was as though something had upset the balance on the universe.  While she listened to the late summer storm, Buffy had her head to Spike's chest and heard nothing inside.  The Slayer took a vampire into her bed.  And thunder broke the skies and seared the clouds.

            What is this hold he has over me?  she wonders to herself again.  She has turned this question over and over in her head, even while she was sleeping.  She dreamed of blood.  She dreamed of great cascades of blood pouring over everything in the world, turning the oceans red, staining fields of green, flooding streets and homes.  She woke from that dream to find him beside her.  He touched her.  And she had the answer to her question.

            "Slayer?"  she hears him say to her.  "You awake?"

            She is, but she doesn't want him to know about it yet.

            He is moving against her, invading the warmth of her side of the bed.  She protects the warmth, curling up inside it as his hands reach for her.

            His mouth is on hers.  Her lips remain slack.  But she is aware that her heart is beginning to pound.

            _What is this hold he has over me?_

"Slayer?"  he says again.  

            He is not going to let her rest.  He didn't last night.  Why would he start now?

            She opens her eyes.  His head rests of the opposite pillow.  His hair is disheveled.  She's never seen it look this way before.  It's always in that perfect, slicked back coif that leads her to believe part of his day is spent at a salon.  But this morning, it's everywhere.  This mesmerizes her.  He almost looks like a different person.  He almost looks human.  

            "What are you thinking?"  he asks.  

            "Mmmm,"  comes her reply.  Which could mean a lot of things.  But mostly, she means it to say, What is this hold you have over me?

            She closes her eyes again and nestles her head into her pillow.

            "Oh, no.  Don't go back to sleep, Slayer.  It's morning now, love."

            It's been morning at least four times so far.  At one, at two, at three, and again at four.  Now, two hours later, it seems to be morning again.  The kind of sunup that puts the good in good morning.

            "Buffy wants to sleep now.  Canoodle later,"  she says in a baby doll voice.

            "I've watched you sleep for hours, love,"  he says, kissing her softly.  "So do you trust me now?"  

            When he doesn't get a response from her, he creeps closer to her.  He wedges one arm under her and envelopes her.  She still does not move.  

            "Slayer, do you trust me now.  Do you, Slayer?"  she feels the tap of his kiss on her forehead and his thumb caressing her chin.  "Here I've spent the last few hours, keen to the knowledge that beside me lies the mother lode of the sweetest vintage of blood there is and I didn't take a single nip.  I could have guzzled you right here,"  he says, tracing a finger down her jugular.  "Blood there, definitely."

            He is putting beats in her heart that the muscles can barely keep up with.  She wonders if he can hear it.

            "Or I could have popped a vein here," he continues, tracing her arm now.  "Good source there."  His finger glides further, down her fingers, down to her hips.  She flinches as his finger dances across the surface of her stomach.  "Or," he says, his voice showing the delight that his girl is ticklish.  "I could have tapped the source here,"  his fingers are now parting her legs and delving into the soft folds of moist flesh.  He finds the pea-sized button there and kneads it between his index finger and his thumb.  "Oh, yes.  There's blood there."

            She lets his fingers caress her until, yes, she is ready for another morning.           

            Afterwards, the two lie very still.  His head rests between her breasts.  Always afterward he is there.  There is no talking for a while.  Silence always follows.  It's as though they still can't vocally acknowledge what they're doing.

            But this morning, she wants him to know something.

            "You're amazing,"  she says.

            There's a growling laughter coming from his depths.  "Oh, love…"  he says, kissing her breast and fondling it gently.  "It's so good with you."

            Cuddled against her bosom, he is curled up in a fetal position and she holds him tight, stroking his hair.  

            And still that question haunts her, _What is this hold he has on me?        _

She decides to go right to the source.  

            "Spike, I need to know something,"  she says tentatively.  "And I want you to be as honest as you possibly can."

            "What's that, love?"

            She considers her words very carefully, trying them out in her head before she says them.  _What is this that we're doing?  What exactly are we doing?  What's going on between us?  What is this hold you have on me…_

"Spike,"  she swallows hard.  "What's going on now…between us…this sex thing…are we just doing it or…"  She's making an idiot of herself.  As the words are coming from her mouth she wishes she could take an eraser and wipe them out before he has a chance to hear them.

            He is stirring now.  He lifts his head and looks directly into her eyes.  There is curiosity in his brow.  "What are you trying to say, love?"

            She issues out a frustrated breath and tries again_.  _"I was just thinking…is this all about the sex or…"_ There I go again…damn!_

"That depends,"  he says.  He props himself up on one elbow as he stretches out beside her.  He touches a finger to the tip of her breast, circling the areola.  "How do you feel about me?"

            This she does not know with any clarity.  And it's easy for her to believe she does feel something for her when he's touching her so intimately.  She grabs his hand and pushes it aside.  She reaches for his face.  She traces the deep, imposing cheekbones, curves her finger around his jawline.  She has seen his face so many times before.  In darkened cemeteries.  In dank alleyways.  In crypts.  Under the colored lights of the Bronze's dance floor.  Now in her bed.  

            "We have such a history,"  she begins, as her fingers press against his mouth.  "Not a lot of it pleasant.   If history repeats itself, I don't wanna be around for the retread of what went on between us when I was in high school.  You were the Big Bad---

            "Hey!"  he says, eyes flashing.  "Be careful with the use of past tense there, love."

            She shakes her head.  "That's what I keep telling myself too.   I look at you and I see your past.  Our past.  It's always there.  No matter how I try to look beyond it.  But then, sometimes, I see something else.  I see you for what I'd like you to be.  What I've glimpsed at you being capable of.  I remember then the Spike who came to me when I needed someone, who offered support without being asked, who risked his life and reputation with his blood-sucking brethren to help the Slayer.  I guess I never thought you could act so selflessly.  It surprised me.  I thought, maybe he does have a sort-of-soul somewhere, lurking under all that blackness and blond hair."

            He rolls his eyes.  "Finally!"  he says.  "It took a bleeding six months, but finally!  Isn't that what I was trying to tell you before?  But you said, 'No.  You can't have feelings.  You're a vampire.  You have a chip, not a soul.  Blah, blah, blah."  He shakes his head.  "You asked me to look after Dawn.  And do you know why I did?  You weren't pushing any money my way.  You weren't offering to outfit my De Sota with a new set of white walls.  I did it because I love you.  I love you so much that it drains me sometime.  I love you so much I offered to kill my first love for you.  I love you so much I listened to boy bands with your sister.  I love you so much that I slept in a basement for two weeks just to hear your footsteps overhead.  I love you so much that I'm willing to put off any thoughts of killing another human being so that I can lie in your arms.   And it hurts me to know that you are still holding onto that doubt about your feelings for me even after you've felt the passion we have for each other burn and sizzle in your own bed."  He takes her head in his hands, a bit roughly at first before relaxing his grip when he sees her wince.  "Buffy…"  There is something in his eyes that stirs her.  He's grabbing for sympathy.  He looks like one of those poor, starving children on UNICEF cans at Halloween.  "Buffy, you're the first human I've ever made love to."

            She peers deep into his eyes to see if she can catch a lie there.  But he doesn't blink while he says this.   He wants her to know this is the truth.  And she can take it for what it's worth.  And it does mean something to her.  

            "You mean, before Dru, there was no one?"  she asks.

            "No one at all."

            She thinks about this.  Dru was his first.  Angel was her first.  They both lost their respective virginities to vampires.  She remembers her first time and Angel's vulgarity as he mocked her performance.  The experience had left her more than a little scarred.  She always thought, maybe I do bring out the worst in men.  She had made Angel evil.  She had made Parker run away.  And Riley, he preferred anonymous bloodletting with vampires to making love to her.

            She thinks that Spike may be reading her mind because the next thing he says seems to be a reply to all she's been thinking.

            "When I lie here with you sometimes, I can feel you thinking about all your past loves.  How they mistreated you.  How they hurt you.  But when I'm in bed with you, in my mind, it's just you, babe.  It's all about you.  I can't think of anything else, but your warm body, your sweet caress, your kisses…"  He kisses her, gently, letting his lips drag on hers as he speaks again.  "I know it's foolish of my to expect you to feel even a quarter of what a feel for you, because that simply isn't possible.  All I'm asking is for you to try to understand that this is real.  This is why I returned.  You are everything---_everything_--- in the world to me.  And if it takes a century to make you understand, then that's how it will have to be."  He kisses her again.  "I've got the time."

            As she gives into his kiss, taking him into her arms, a chill passes down her spine as one, clear thought echoes through her head.

            _I don't._

There is noise now down the hallway.  Buffy is momentarily distracted as she hears a door open.  They are not alone.  The second Summers sister is awake and padding down the hallway.

            "Mmmm,"  she says, unsuctioning her lips from his.  "Dawn's up."

            "Mmmmm…?"

            "When she sees you, she'll want to know why you were here,"  Buffy says.

            "Surely she knows about the birds and the bees at this point in her life,"  Spike says.  

            "Yeah, but she's never had them flying around her when she's trying to sleep in the next room,"  Buffy says.

            _Oh, God, I'll bet she heard everything…_

            She pries herself away from him.  "Honey, I've got to go talk to her."

            He is so stunned by this unexpected term of endearment, he doesn't make an effort to restrain her.  _Honey…she called me honey…_

            She can hear Dawn in the kitchen.  As she's pulling the robe on around her, Dawn is pouring cereal.  When Buffy enters, Dawn pretends she doesn't see her.  She just sits there, leveling the spout of the milk carton over her frosted flakes.

            "Hey,"  Buffy attempts.

            Dawn remains silent, closing the mouth of the milk before reaching for her spoon.

            "I hope that's not the last of the milk.  I know we were about out."  

            Dawn plunges her spoon into the cereal, tossing the flakes around once or twice before taking a bite, keeping her chin close to the bowl.  

            "I'm going to the store later, so you may want to make a list."

            Dawn is chewing slowly, contemplatively.  

            "So far I know we need milk, eggs, bread.  Oh, and Capri Suns!  I know how you like your Capri Suns."

            Dawn slowly finishes her mouthful of cereal and swallows hard.  Finally, she reaches for a piece of paper there on the table and shows it to her sister.

            "Do you know what this is?"  Dawn asks.

            "Umm…a flyer about free termite inspection?"

            Dawn grimaces.  "This is paper.  As in, what the walls are made of here.  And do you know what this is?"  She puts the paper in front of her face.  " 'Oh, Spike…Oh, Spike…Oh, oh, oh, Spike.  Oh, it feels so good…it feels so good…'"

            Buffy reddens at her sister's spot on imitation of her in the throes of passion.  From out of the mouths of babes…

            Dawn slams the paper down on the table.  "That is what I heard all night.  And that is the reason I didn't sleep at all.  And that is the reason I may not ever speak to you again."

            "Oh, Dawn…"  Buffy says, rushing over to the table.  "Let me explain."  She flexes her fingers, popping a few knuckles, not knowing where to begin.  "Dawn, honey…when two adult people come together…sometimes…they make a decision between themselves to…to be together…and it must be completely consensual.  That's the only reason to ever…and it must be done between two adults.  Two adult people who make a consensual decision to be together…"

            She feels a presence moving up behind her.  Strong arms go around her waist and she is grateful for the support.

            "What your sister is trying to tell you ever so delicately and with ever so much erudition,  is that she boinked old Spike last night and she wants to know if you're OK with that,"  Spike says.

            Dawn is glaring both at them.  "I don't care who Buffy sleeps with.  Just so long as it doesn't keep me awake."

            "Dawn, I'm sorry.  I am really, really sorry.  Can you forgive me?  It won't happen again."

            "It won't?"  Spike asks.  

            Buffy elbows him in the stomach.  "I was a little out of control last night, and I am deeply, deeply sorry.   And there's something else you should know."  She takes a breath and considers the one by her side.  She takes him into her arms.  "Spike and I are going to try to have a relationship."

            Dawn holds her spoon above her  cereal.  "You mean, as in boyfriend and girlfriend?"

            Buffy regards her lover.  There is surprise in his eyes.  Then there is a brief period in which she can almost hear him say, "God, I love you" with just a look.

            "Yeah, as boyfriend and girlfriend,"  she says.

            Buffy's fist connects with the hard, rubber surface of the practice dummy.  She winces from this one.  She takes another jab.   She is covered in sweat and she feels that the knuckles on her hands are quickly being stripped of all their skin.  She's been in the training room for over three hours.  She's been at this for all but fifteen minutes of that time.

            There is a hand now on her shoulder.  Her fist flies in the direction of the person behind her.

            A startled Giles ducks just in time.

            Buffy's eyes widen as she covers her mouth.

            "Oh, God, Giles!  I'm sorry!"

            "That's quite all right,"  he says.  "I just noticed the time and thought you might need a break."  He is holding a water bottle for her.

            "Can't stop now,"  she says, plowing her fist into the side of the dummy again.

            Giles says nothing, but she can almost hear the thoughts forming in his head.

            "Buffy, what's wrong?"  he asks.

            "Nothin'.  Just making up for lost time.  I've been working a lot lately.  Haven't been training enough."

            "I haven't seen you go at this dummy with such ferocity since…"

            He knows, she thinks.  _Damn, can't at least some things be private?_

"Buffy…"

            "What?"

            "Is there something or…someone…bothering you again?"

            "No,"  she says.

            "Oh, I think there is."

            Buffy kicks the dummy and sends it flying.  When it comes back at her, she kicks it again.  She stalks away, breathing heavily.  She mops the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand and grabs for the water Giles has brought her.  

            "You're right, Giles.  I could use a break.  It must be, what, six o'clock now?  I need to get a few things at the store."  She takes a drink of the water and hands it back to him.  "See you tomorrow."

When she arrives home, it has been dark for about an hour.  She is carrying two bags of groceries and one is precariously positioned to slip onto the floor.  She supports it with her knee and hefts it back into her arms as she struggles to get her key in the door.  When the door is finally open, she hears Spike say, "Wait a minute!" and the door slams shut again.

"Spike, what are you doing?"  she asks.

"Just a second!"  he says.

She rolls her eyes and contemplates putting the bags on the floor.  Her muscles are aching from training and the added strain of holding two giant grocery bags is taxing even her Slayer strength.

But in a minute the door is opened again.

He stands by the entrance, door man style, and bids her admission with a wry salute.

"You may come in,"  he says.

As she walks in, her senses are enveloped all at once by the sight and smell of about a hundred candles burning, all around the apartment---on the TV, on the in tables by the sofa, on the bookshelf, on the stereo, along the counter in the kitchen, and on the table.  In one inhalation it smells like church; in another, sweet fields of lilac.  There is something else in the air, too.  Roses.  At her feet is a trail of rose petals.  She follows them briefly, until she sees where they lead.  To the bedroom.  And she can see even there, the bed is illuminated by candlelight and the white sheets are spotted with dark red rose petals as well.

She stands there, stunned, for a moment even forgetting that she is carrying such a heavy load, until the heavier bag begins to descend again.

"What do you think?"  he asks eagerly.

"I think I'm about to lose my security deposit,"  she says.  She sets the groceries down on the floor as she gazes around.  "Wow…"

He is smiling, waiting for some kind of thank you.  Something more than, _Wow._

"How long did it take you set all this up?"  she asks.

"Dunno.  An hour or so.  Little Bit helped.  I told her I was sort of hoping to show you my romantic side tonight,"  he says.

"Where is she?"  with her responsibility mode kicking in.

"I sent her to the pictures."

"But she didn't have any dinner,"  Buffy says.

"There was money for that, as well,"  he replies.

"Oh, yeah.  Whose money?"  she asks.

"Some that I found in your drawer,"  when she starts to protest, he says, "I'm only joking.  I had some.  Little Bit and I made a trade.  If she went to the butcher's shop for me, I'd give her money for that new Matt Damian flick."

"Damon,"  she corrects him.  She is smiling back at him now.  She supposes after the rough and tumble games they've been playing lately, he thinks she has been secretly waiting for something like this.  And she has.  She strides up to him and takes him into her arms.  She kisses him and says.  "You sly creature.  Thought you could sweep me off my feet with roses and candles."

"Mmm, doesn't seem to be working,"  he says, kissing her back.

"Not at all,"  she says, endeavoring for another kiss.

"So I suppose all my efforts were in vain,"  he says, connecting with her lips again.

"Totally,"  she says.

She pulls him closer to her and they kiss there in the middle of the room, a cold grocery bag against her bare ankle reminding her that there are things that need to be refrigerated.  But there's a cold mouth against hers and she wants it to stay there, for a while.

When she finally breaks away, she says, "Honey, I've got to get out these clothes."

"I can help you with that,"  he says, flicking his tongue across her upper lip.  

"And take a shower…"  she realizes she's just adding more fuel to the fire.

"I can also be of assistance in that area,"  he says.

She gives him a warning look and walks off in the direction of the bathroom.  "You can put the groceries away, if you want,"  she says, pulling the elastic off her ratty pony tail.

"Oh, goody!"  he says.  "Hard labor rewarded by more hard labor.  Doesn't seem quite fair."

"You'll be rewarded,"  she teases as she pops her top over her head and tosses it back to him.  "Handsomely."

He holds the shirt in his hands for several seconds, fighting the inclination to follow her into the bathroom.  He puts the shirt to his nose and breathes in deeply.  As he exhales against it, he cold breath brings back the sweat and toil of the hours spent training that day.  

"Mmmm…"  he says.  "Slayer musk."

Once she is out of the shower, she finds him sitting on the sofa, one leg draped across the other, his foot shaking slowly to the tune of some unknown song he seems to be playing in his head.  He sees her and makes room beside him on the tiny two-seater.  She is still toweling her hair and continues to do so until she's certain that it's dry enough not to dampen the furniture.  Then she tosses the towel aside and plops down next to him in a sigh.

Before her on the coffee table, among the myriad of votives, is a bottle of wine and two glasses.  He starts to pour, but she stops him.

"Uh, Buffy and alcohol are not really on speaking terms these days,"  she says.  "But don't let that stop you from partaking."

"Not at all?"  he asks.

"After an incident involving college kids, cavemen and beer back a couple of years ago that's just too strange to explain right now, I learned my lesson."

"Really?  That actually sounds like a story I'd like to hear."

"Trust me.  You're better off with the Cliffs Notes version I just gave you."

He seems to be satisfied with this and the two relax together.  She puts her head on his shoulder and he smells all the sweetness of her freshly shampooed hair.  He thinks she must use one of those herbal concoctions he sees advertised on TV, the kind that make women orgasmic in airplane toilets and courtrooms.

He drinks his wine as she snuggles against him.  It strikes her as odd that she seems so comfortable and it occurs to her that she should perhaps exercise a little caution.  Maybe this is somehow part of his plan.  If he thinks he can make her so relaxed in his company, then he has her just where he wants her---vulnerable to some sort of devious plot he's been concocting since the moment she gave into him.  But just under her hairline, she feels his kiss as he draws an arm around her.  He's not planning anything tonight, she thinks to herself.  Nothing but a little seduction and she's up for that.

"How long has Dawn been gone?"  she asks.

" 'Bout an hour, I suppose.  Not long."

"Was she going with anyone?"

"Whoever her chatty pals are that she keeps hanging on the telephone line all day," he says.

"She loves this new freedom she's experiencing.  This summer has been like a whole new life for her, almost.  I've been letting her go out as much as possible.  I don't think she's used to it yet.  She calls me still whenever she's out, just to let me know she's OK.  It was weird for me for a while too.  I still felt like Glory was lurking around.  But Willow and Tara took care of things.  Permanently."

"Dawn was telling me a little about that.  They teleported the hell gods straight back from whence they came."

"Yeah.  All three.  Willow and Tara were sick for the longest time.  Willow was actually in the hospital afterward.  She still gets headaches every once in a while.  What can I say?  I get by with a little help from my friends."

He knows this is true.  Had the Chinese and New York slayers had a group like the Scoobies behind them, he would have been their trophy, he is certain.  He thinks that's why it's so hard for him to like them sometimes.

"But then after that, there was an even bigger demon waiting 'round the bend,"  she says.  "In the form of my father."

"You've got a father?"

"Did you think I was conceived by the Midi-Chlorians or something?"

"I just never heard you refer to your father, is all."

"No, I guess in the course of our fighting over the years, I failed to insert that little blurb into my biography.   But yes, I do have a father.  He doesn't show up very often, but when he does…oh, brother."

"My guess is he wasn't here to pay a friendly visit."

"No.  He wanted Dawn back."

"But he's not even her father."

"Well, you know that, and I know that, but he refuses to believe it.  And you'd be surprised how well the argument that some monks sent an energy ball in the form of a sister so that I could protect her holds up in a court of law."

"How did you get to keep her?"

"Things got sort of prickly, sort of ugly.  But it was decided that Dawn was old enough to decide who she wanted to live with and that person was me.  Dad skulked off to his usual place, which is nowhere to be seen, most of the time, and I haven't heard from him since.  I loved my mother, but she had the most abysmal taste in men."

She passed that on to her daughter, he is thinking.  Good thing I came along to break the curse.

"And then,"  she sighs as she reaches for the hand draped on her shoulder, "with all the court costs and mortgage payments eating away at what little money Mom had to leave us, I had to let the house go.  And that was the hardest thing I've ever had to do.  But it was just too much of a burden.  It contained a lot of memories, but it was an expensive hope chest to keep around.  So I sold the house and moved in here about two months ago."

"Not the spacious digs of your old place, but it's not without its charm,"  he says.

She inhales and looks around at the cramped space, noting that it almost looks like an alcove of a chapel with all the candles.  "You know, normally I hate the place, but tonight, it looks sort of enchanting."

"It's the company, I'm sure."

Damn, egocentric bastard, she thinks.  But there's always a self-deprecating tone that goes along with these asides.  She can almost agree with him, though.  She is feeling a contentment she hasn't felt for a long time, curled up beside him.  We're already like two old marrieds, she thinks.   She also thinks that her friends wouldn't be quite as shocked by the fact that they have been having sex as they would be to know that Spike and Buffy snuggled quietly on a sofa and didn't have a single cross word to say to one another.

"Buffy, I know you've been through a lot in the last few months, and I am sorry,"  he says.  

"I got through it.  I had my peeps around me,"  she says, mocking cheerfulness.  But she grows more serious with the next sentence.  It's more than she has wanted to say to him, but she thinks he knows it.  And that's exactly why she hasn't told him.  "I did miss you, though."

"You did?"  he asks.  "And exactly how much did the Slayer miss her vampire lover?"

"Mmmm,"  she gets closer to him.  Closer is the only option on a sofa this small.  "A whole lot."

He reaches over and puts his wine on the table.  He then takes her face into her hands for a kiss.  "Why don't you show me how much you missed me?"

"I think I've been doing that, haven't I?"

"Show me again.  I sometimes like the re-runs better than the regular season."

Sometimes he just kills her with the cheesy lines.  But they work.  Especially when his hands are on her.  As powerful as his fists can be when they're raining blows down on her, when uncurled they are sweetly seductive and entirely intent on her pleasure, it seems.

He opens the lapels of her bathrobe and kisses her chest.  Her hands are across his back.  He cups one breast in his hand, kissing it for a brief moment, before returning to her mouth.  

The phone begins to ring.

"Don't get it,"  he says, his words vibrating on her lips.

"It might be Dawn…"  she says.

"You have the answering machine on?"  he asks, continuing to kiss her.

"Yes,"  she says, tasting the wine in his mouth.  

"Let it do its job, then,"  he instructs as he pushes her against the arm of the sofa.  

While their sighs rise and fall, the answering machine picks up.  Buffy finds it weird to hear her own voice in the air while she's lying there being caressed and kissed.  It's almost as though her clone has walked in on them.

There is a long beep.  And then Willow's voice sounds.  "Buffy, it's Wil.  We just got your message.  We've been up at Big Bear and we just got back.  But we'll be right over to reactivate the de-invite spell for Spike.  I hope he hasn't been bothering you.  See you in a bit."

Spike's lips have now stopped moving.  His hands remain on her.  He is stone still.  But then his face starts to move away from hers.  There is fear in her as he rises.  She can see the hurt in his eyes turning to madness.

"De-invite spell, eh?"  he asks.  

Her heart begins to pound.  She is trapped under him.  She wants to move, but can't.  He is holding her down.  "Spike, I…"

"De-invite spell?"  he says again.

"I asked them to come over days ago.  When you were here with Dawn and I thought---

"You asked the lover Wiccas to do a de-invite spell?"

She sees him hovering over her, his face contorted into a deadly scowl.  His hands won't let go.  But then suddenly, they do.  She is free of him.  He is on his feet, ranting around the small living room of the apartment.  He stops at the midpoint of the room and emits a howl that pierces her eardrums and sends chills down her spine.  He kicks the table, sending it flying, the contents spilling everywhere.  Buffy scurries to put out any flames the candles have caused on the carpet, but it's all wax dripping there on the plush fibers.  Wine flows from the neck of the bottle and she rights it before anymore can spill.

There is another howl, and he wanders aimlessly, pounding his head with his fists.

            "What are you trying to do to me?"  he shouts, kicking the door and sending the toe of his boot shooting through the other side.  

He struggles to free his boot, giving her enough time to search for a weapon, something she can use.  She looks at the table legs on the coffee table.  She strikes it with the side of her foot, crying out as the hardwood collides with her arch.  She has knocked the table leg just slightly off position.  She thinks that if she can grasp it, she can wring it free.  But as she does, he kicks it with his boot and spins it in his hand.

"Is this what you want, Slayer?  Something to kill me?  You don't need that, love.  You've already found another method.   I know what you're game is now, love.  You can't destroy me in the conventional Slayer-vamp way.  So you've found another way.  A way that suits your needs quite nicely.  Because you get to exact the control, make up the rules as you go along.   I have lain beside you, confessed things to you that I wouldn't dare speak of to anyone else, and I have loved you more than an ungrateful bint like you deserves to be loved.  And this is how you return your affection."

 "Spike, I didn't mean to hurt you.  I wouldn't want them to de-invite you now."

"The fact is, Slayer, you don't trust me.  And you never will.  Even after I told you I can control the violence now.  Even after I told you I don't have to kill and I wouldn't kill."  He new expression covers his face and she believes that at any moment she might see actual tears in his eyes.  "You think I'm a monster, don't you?  I'm just one of your quarry, aren't I?"

            "Spike, you know that's not how it is,"  she says, trying to reach for him.  "Not now."

            "Then tell me now, Slayer.  Tell me as honestly as you can.  How do you feel about me?"

            Her mouth has suddenly gone dry.  He is standing a pace in front of her, and takes a step back whenever her hands come near.  It's her words that he wants, not her touch.

            "I…"  she begins, "I…"  she can't force herself to say it.  Even as he stands there with that sad, hurt look on his face that she wants to sweep away into a corner somewhere.

            His lips are curling in a sneer.  "You don't care about me.  You don't give a damn about me.  When we're making love, you may as well be making love to any one of the demons and vamps who escape the point of your stake."

            "Spike, don't talk like that.  When I make love to you, it does mean something to me.  And I resent you making me out to be some sort of vampire whore."

            "You're heartless, Buffy Summers.  My heart may not beat, but it does feel.  Your heart's gone cold.  You can't let people in because you don't want them to know how empty you are inside."  He presents the makeshift stake to her.  "If this is how it's going to be, I don't want to be around for it.  I'd rather have you stake me now than have to endure the misery of your cruelty."

            "I don't want to stake you, Spike."

            "You did before.  For years that's all you wanted to do.  Until you discovered that I was more fun undead than dead."  He throws the stake against the wall, letting it ping to the ground.  He turns, finding his leather duster by the door.  As he slips it on, he says.  "You can tell the lover Wiccas not to bother with the de-invite spell.  You won't be needing it.  I'm not going to darken your doorstep again, Slayer.  Ever.  I'm through with this.  I thought that what we had was worth fighting for.  But, as it turns out, we don't have anything at all but a lie between us."  He goes for the door, but before his hand turns the knob, he looks at her once more.  "You think about that."

            When he is gone, the sound of the slammed door echoes through the apartment and in her ears.  The walls reverberate from his harsh exit and his harsher, more damning words.  They have fought so many times.  But this time was different.  This time wasn't a "who-can-hurt-whom-worse" fight.  This was an, "I'm-hurt-and-you're-the-cause, bitch" fight.  This was their first lover's spat.

            Buffy is not alone in the apartment for long.  In a few minutes, there is a knock at the door.  Tara and Willow have come to reactivate the spell.  She doesn't have time to clear away the candles and the rose petals.  She wants all the evidence to be there for them to see, so they'll know, so it won't be a secret anymore.

            And when they see her, naked but for the robe, and alone in a room filled with candles and rose petals, with a smashed-in coffee table and a boot-made hole in the door, they do.  And she is relieved.

            "We're too late, aren't we?"  Willow asks.

            "Much too late,"  Buffy answers.  "But come in anyway.  I've got some things to tell you."


	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

            It is late.  The darkest part of the night.  Buffy is seated beside a large tombstone.  Every once in a while the leaves shift on the tree above and she can read a little of the inscription.  So far she has been able to make out the first name, William.  But the last name is obscured.  She has seen one of the dates.  1860, she believes, is the birth date, or 1866.  Were there people in Sunnydale then?  Apparently so by the tale the tombstone tells.  "Poet, friend" reads the description.  "Traveled the world, came back for…"

            There is something rustling in the bushes now.  She springs to her feet, stake in hand.  Time to go to work.

            She runs in the direction of the noise.  In a clearing, she discerns a dark figure forty paces ahead of her.  Her feet barely touch the ground as she's running.  The creature in front of her remains elusive, still stubbornly in the lead.  Her eyes follow his movements carefully.  He has assumed a straight path for much of the chase, but now he has ducked into a crypt.  _Stupid vamp_!  She says to herself.  _You think I'm going to let a little thing like a giant, iron door get in the way of me and another kill?_

            But the minute she enters, she knows that she's the stupid one.

            In the glow of a dozen or so candles, she feels the presence of three vampires bearing down on her.  As her eyes adjust to the new light, she sees them approaching her.  But something else catches her eye.  She knows this place.  She's been here, many times before.  In front of her is a small armchair that's been ripped apart, its stuffing coming out like exposed intestines.  Over on the other side of the crypt there is a sarcophagus, it's stone slab lying broken at its side.  And just beyond the trio of vamps now circling her, there is a TV, it's screen gone, its antennas torn away.  

            This is Spike's crypt, she says to herself.

            "We don't want to kill you, Slayer,"  the vampire to her left growls.  "We just wanted to know if it was true."

            "If what's true?"  she asks, her stake at the ready in case anyone decides to make a sudden move.

            The trio begins to laugh in unison in a bone-headed, Beavis and Butthead way.  When the laughter finally stops, the one to her left, apparently the spokesperson of the group, sneers, "Spike was bragging to everyone that he had slept with the Slayer."

            "Sp-pike?"  she sputters, trying desperately to maintain her cool.  "I don't know any Spikes.  But I do know stakes.  And I've got one for each of you."

            "That's what we thought,"  the one to the left says.  "We thought he was lying.  So we killed him."

            Buffy hears this, barely.  But it has been delivered so quickly and without any semblance of preparation, she stands there, not believing it.  There's no visible reaction from her, except a slight tremble in her lip.

            "You're lying,"  she says.

            "Show her, Tiny,"  the one from the left says.

            The one referred to as Tiny, not surprisingly, the largest of the group, is holding something behind him.  But as instructed, he produces his object for show and tell.  It is Spike's leather duster.  

            She sees it, draping from the vampires hands all the way to the floor.  It looks small in his hands, so small.  The shoulders look about the width of some of the coats she wears.  But it is Spike's.  She has seen it too many times to deny its ownership.  The last time was when he said good-bye…

            "We stripped it off him right before we killed him,"  the vampire from the left is saying.  "He didn't fight us.  He was drunk and easily overpowered. He said he didn't care what we did to him.  He was going to stake himself but he didn't have the guts.  Apparently, things didn't end too well between you.  Before I drove the stake into his chest, he cried out, 'Tell the Slayer I loved her.'  I wasn't going to relay that information.  But I guess I just did."

            She is still staring at the leather duster as the vampire's words fill her head.  

_No, this isn't true.  No, this can't be.  Spike's not gone.  He's too powerful.  He could have dusted these guys with one flick of a stake.  These guys are strictly low rent.  Spike was---Spike is---way out of their league.  He wouldn't have allowed himself to be killed by these guys.   He wouldn't kill himself…over me.  Would he?_

"So, Slayer.  Were we wrong?  Was he lying about the two of you?"  the voice is getting closer.  "Are _you_ lying about the two of you?"

The leather duster is nearing her.  All three are looming near.  There is a fury forming in her that she fears will keep her from performing her craft.  But perhaps, it will work to her advantage…

The one to her left is the first.  She gets him with an uppercut to the jaw.  While he stumbles and careens against the ruined armchair, she is able to take a jab at the one to her right.  He takes it better than she thought, so she nails him again, this time sending him to the floor with a kick to the head.  The one on the left has regrouped, but she sees him coming and deflects him with a kick from the other leg.  Now it's Tiny's turn.  Yes, she should have taken out the strongest one first.  But the one on the left…he told her…he gave her the news.  Tiny is still holding the leather duster.  She rips it from his hands.

"That doesn't belong to you!"  she says, as she begins her assault.  

He is not as tough as he appears.  The sight of the tiny Slayer is sometimes amusing to vamps, and they are easily deceived.  She punches him in the nose, in the stomach.  After one jab, a smile breaks across his face.

"You're cute,"  he says.

"Yeah?"  she says.  And as the stake disappears into his chest, she whispers, "Downright adorable, aren't I?"

Now she's got the other two.  The brains of the group also proves to be the brawn and he has a few moves that surprise her.  But after a series of kicks and an out-of-nowhere punch to stomach, he is on the ground and beneath her stake.  Gone.  The third one has crept away, somehow.  When she spins around to find him, he is nowhere to be seen.  The slamming of the iron door points her in the right direction.  She grabs Spike's coat and dashes after him.  She doesn't see him right away.  But she can hear him panting, somewhere in the distance, drawing in exhausted breaths as he runs for his life.  Then finally she does see him.  He is running right for the section of the cemetery where she found herself before.  There is the tombstone where she has crouched.  She knows the shape, knows the words that the sparse moonlight will allow her to see.  She spins around, knowing that the vampire is near.  And then she hears him.

"He really loved you, Slayer.  He said it with his dying breath."

She is still looking for him.  From out of the shadows now comes his figure.  There is a bright flame coming from his hand.  He is not coming towards her.  He is approaching the tombstone.  She watches him bend, illuminating the tombstone's surface with the light of the flame he carries.

Finally, she can see it all.

WILLIAM THE BLOODY 

_1860-2001_

_Poet, friend_

_Traveled the world, came back for the woman he loved and then died a broken man_

She is holding the duster close to her now.  The vampire begins to speak again.

"Did you love him, Slayer?  Did you?"

As she holds the duster against her chin, tears are beginning to fall from her eyes.  She is thinking about the last morning, waking next to him.  And then the flowers and the candles that night.  Such a surprise.  And his gentleness as she told him about all of her troubles in the past six months…that came as a surprise as well.  

"We're not all monsters,"  the vampire says.  "Some of us can love.  And feel.  And hurt.  But what we all have in common is that we all wait for our death at yours hands.  You didn't put the stake to his heart,  but you may as well have.  He wanted to die because you didn't love him.  You never told him those words that he wanted to hear more than anything in the world."

"But I did love him…"  she says.  "I always did.  He was right.  I felt something for him from the very beginning.  And no matter how many times I tried to tell myself that he disgusted me and that he repulsed me, I just said it to defend myself from the feelings I was having for him.  I think he knew that.  I hope he knew that anyway…"  She can't keep speaking.   Her throat is too tight with tears.  They deluge her eyes and she cannot see.  But she feels something.  Arms are going around her shoulder as someone slips beside her.  She allows herself to go into this person's arms.  She is being rocked gently now by this being, this creature she knows is a vampire.  He holds her as she cries and holds the duster tight.

But there is a new voice now.  One she recognizes all too well.  Her Watcher has happened on the scene.  And he is not pleased.

"Buffy, how could you let it come to this?"

She lifts her head.  From over the tombstone, she sees him standing with disdain on his face and curses in his soul.  She untangles herself from the vampire's grasp and stands to meet him.

"He was comforting me,"  she says.  "That was all."

"Comforting you over the death of your lover,"  Giles says.

"You wouldn't.  You'd tell me that what we had between us was a lie. And it wasn't.  It was as close to the real thing as there is.  I loved him, Giles."

"Oh, Buffy,"  he says.  "You couldn't have loved him.  He was a demon.  A killer.  You should have staked him before he ever had a chance to say word one of his seduction."

"He didn't have to seduce me.  I always did want him, Giles.  That's why I never could kill him.  I loved him, Giles.  I loved him with all my heart.  You've got to believe me!  I loved him!  I loved him!"

"Buffy, wake up!  You have to be at work in thirty minutes!"  Dawn is saying.

Buffy's eyes are instantly open.  She has been in the clutches of this dream all night, it seems.  She thinks she has dreamed this since she first closed her eyes.  It hasn't left her until now at…3:30 in the afternoon.

"Oh, my God!"  she says, staring at the clock with disbelief.  After the shock of the late hour leaves her, she realizes that she is cold.  Freezing.  It must be twenty below in the apartment.  She grabs up the covers and swings her legs over the bed.  But as she does, a wave of dizziness sweeps over her head.  It knocks her senseless for a minute and she rests there on the side of the bed, waiting for it to leave her.  But it holds on, stubbornly, like the memory of the dreams she's been having.

"You OK, Buffy?"  Dawn asks.  "You don't look so well."

"I'm fine.  It's just that…it's a little cold in here, don't you think?"

"Cold?  It's, like five hundred and twenty degrees outside today.  And the air conditioner's out again, of course.  I went over to Amelia's house 'cause I couldn't stand it anymore.  Don't you remember when I told you I was leaving?"

"No,"  she says.  She is shivering and her teeth are chattering.

Dawn peers into her face and flattens her hand against her forehead.  "Geez, Buffy!  You're burning up!  You're hotter than the sidewalks!"

"No, I'm not burning up.  I'm free…eee…zing,"  she bites out between colliding teeth.

"You can't go to work like this,"  Dawn says.

"Oh, yes I can.  I don the shiny suit.  Food appears on the table.  It's magic, really,"  she says, bundling up as she tries to make it onto the floor again.  She stands up, tentatively, letting her toes grip the floor because she doesn't trust her balance.  And rightly so.  She falls back onto the bed.  "Well don't just stand there, Dawn.  Help me into the bathroom."

Dawn is standing over her with worry beaming from her face.  There is no movement to assist her sister.  Buffy knows why.  She's never seen her big sister like this and she can see their roles shifting as Buffy lies there, cocooned in her blankets, looking small and miserable.

"Dawn!  Help me to the bathroom!  I've got to get ready for work!"

The urgency in her voice is enough to spark some assignation in Dawn now and she takes her sister by the arms, tugging her to her feet.

Together they do make it into the bathroom.  Dawn props her sister in front of the mirror.  Buffy's eyes struggle to focus on the vision before her.  She sees her face.  And then she sees the red spots.

"Oh, God.  I am sick,"  she says.  I've got some kind of pox or something."

"It's not pox, Buffy,"  Dawn says.  Dawn peels one of the "spots" away from her sister's face.  "They're rose petals.  But you are sick, Buffy."

She is relying so much on her sister for support that she can't deny this.  Her head feels too heavy to carry.  She lets her head droop and fall into her hands, defeatedly.  "You're right, Dawn.  I can't go."  She takes a peek at her sister out of one eye.  "You call in for me?"

"Yeah.  I'll call in for you.  But we've got to get you back into bed."

"Not yet,"  she says.  "Nature's calling."  She hopes she doesn't have to ask her little sister to help her to the toilet.  And she doesn't.

After Dawn has deposited her sister into bed again, Dawn begins checking off things she has to do next.  Her sister needs something to get the fever down.  Aspirin.  They've got that.  And she'll need something to eat.  Chicken and Stars.  She knows there's plenty of that in the cupboard.

"Since you're going to be home all day, maybe you can let me in a little on what happened with Spike last night.  Must have gotten pretty hot.  You guys broke the coffee table."

Her sister is hinting at passion that didn't take place.  There was a different kind of passion play last night.  Buffy still hasn't told her sister what happened.  She doesn't intend to.

"Buffy, you just lie there.  I'll take care of you.  Don't worry,"  Dawn says, kissing her sister on the forehead, feeling the singe as her healthy lips meet with her sister's ragingly hot skin.

"Thank you, Dawn,"  Buffy says, curling up against her pillow.  "You're a good little sister."

The first thing Spike knows the next morning is that the floor of the crypt is awfully hard when one falls onto it from a three-foot height.  

His head bonks against the cement floor and he is instantly awake to the pain.  There was already an ache present from the bottle he consumed the night before.  He must have curled up with it before he passed out.  Now it lies broken at his side as he tries to rise from the floor.

"Awww…bloody hell!"  he says in a strangulated voice.  He holds the back of his head as he slowly gets to his feet.  He can't open his eyes yet, so he must feel for the edge of the sarcophagus for support.

He leans his elbows on the top of the sarcophagus.  He has made it to his knees.  This is as far as he can go right now.  He rubs his eyes, and then opens them slowly, preparing them for the sudden burst of light.

When he does finally unglue his eyelids, he sees someone over in the corner.  He squints, hopelessly, until his eyes finally focus.

Then he is able to get to his feet.

It is the Indian.

"What are you doing here?"  he asks.

The Indian says nothing.  His face remains expressionless.  It's as though he doesn't even know there is someone else in the room.

"What do you want?"  Spike tries again.

Still there is nothing from the Indian.  His mouth is clamped shut and his eyes stare off to a far corner.

"I thought I killed you!"  Spike says.

The Indian opens his mouth.  Spike waits for him to say something.  If he doesn't, he may kill him again.

But now, there is speech.

"The curse has found its way,"  the Indian says.

"Curse?  What curse?"

"The curse has found it way."

"You said that already, mate.  Now what bloody curse?"

"You will know.  Remember all, and you will be saved.  Remember nothing, and you will die."

"You know, I had about all I could take of your mumbo jumbo in the desert.  That's half the reason why I killed you."

"The curse…"  he rasps.

"What curse?  Tell me!"

"You will know in time.  Remember.  Before it's too late."

This is all Spike can take.  He rushes towards the Indian, a fist curled to deliver a crushing blow.  But he doesn't connect with the Indian's body.  His fist feels the impact of hitting the wall instead.  

As he squats in the floor, his hand smarting and his head still roaring, he yells, "What curse?"  He is remembering the night before now, how Buffy couldn't even choke out the words "I love you."  He could have choked them out of her.  But he couldn't lay a hand on her.  He knew that if he touched her, he'd tear her apart.  Though he left telling her he'd never be back, this morning all he can think about is seeing her again.

"I'm already cursed,"  he says bitterly, lying back on the floor, letting the coolness of the cement soothe his head.

Dawn is arranging things on a tray for her sister.  The soup is now out of the microwave and piping hot.  She handles the mug very carefully.  This is a mug she painted herself at the U Throw it You Paint It shop downtown.  She didn't throw this one, though.  She watched for a whole hour as a lady in a flowered caftan squeezed and molded this lump of shiny, brown clay into a smooth, fluid column.  When she tried, all she had gotten was a bigger and fatter lump of clay that came unattached from the wheel and nearly hit someone upside the head like a discus.  But she did paint the mug.  On one side is a rainbow.  On the other, she wrote, "You're my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, big sis!"

She is brewing tea as well.  In the time it has taken the kettle to build up for a good squeal, the soup has sufficiently cooled.  She drops a tea bag in the bottom of the mug and pours.  It's herbal tea.  The box says it requires no sweetening, but suggests honey to taste.  Dawn finds a bear of honey in the middle cupboard and adds it to the tray.

She lifts the tray and heads out the kitchen.  She has forgotten one thing.  The aspirin.  She thinks it may be in the bathroom, but she doesn't know.  She checks the window sill first.   Not there.  It must be in the bathroom then.  It's on her way to the bedroom, so she continues on.

As she enters the bedroom, she is looking down at the tray, making sure that nothing is spilling.  

"I hope it's not too hot, Buffy.  I tested it with my little finger.  You're so cold, you might not notice though."  She looks up then, expecting to see her sister where she left her curled up in bed.  But she's not there.   Suddenly afraid that her sister has done something stupid like try to get ready for work, she calls her name.  And then she happens to see her sister's feet.

Buffy is lying on the other side of the bed, her body seized by a series of jerks and shakes.  The tray clatters to the floor as Dawn runs to her sister's side, her throat catching a scream before it makes it out of her mouth.  Her sister thrashes about, her head pounding against the bare floorboards.   Only the whites of her eyes are visible.  And her mouth is covered in a white, frothy foam.

Finally the scream does come.  She cannot hear it.  There is so much terror in her that she doesn't realize the screams she is hearing are her own.  But then sense comes to her and she grabs a pillow with shaking hands and thrusts it under her sister's head.  The next thing she grabs is the telephone.  She has to recite the numbers to herself as she dials.  "9…1…1…"  For the longest time she hears it ring.  And when the operator finally answers, Dawn fears that her voice won't stop quaking enough for anyone to understand her.

"911…what is your emergency?"  the operator asks.

Dawn places a hand on her chest as though trying to put the brakes on her speeding heartbeats.  Calm down, she urges herself…Calm down…

"Yes…this is…Dawn Summers…"  Despite her efforts, her voice is breaking.  "My sister, Buffy.  She's on the floor…I think she's dying…"

Dawn is in the waiting room of the emergency room for a half an hour before Giles and the gang arrive, sufficient time for her to be comforted by every stranger, but ignored by every doctor and nurse.  But now even with her support group there, Dawn has never felt more alone.  She has always regarded Giles as Buffy's protector, not hers.  It is not that she doubts his virility or his strength, but she knows that his purpose is to look out for Buffy.  Dawn has always been Buffy's charge, even when their mother was still alive.  And Buffy is behind those heavy, swinging doors, seemingly miles away, down a long, shiny-floored hallway.

Everyone is so silent that when someone does make an effort to speak, it sounds foreign and out of place.  Dawn sits next to Giles, her back straight against her chair.  On the row of chairs in front of her sit four people she doesn't know, and four people she barely recognizes.  It's as though the thought of Buffy being in danger had reduced their features in some way, making them smaller.  Anya holds tight to Xander's hand.  Xander tensely rubs his leg with the other and sometimes raps his fingers against his thigh, pursing his lips and shaking his head as though he's arguing against some dark thoughts in his head.  Willow is leaning heavily on Tara's shoulder, her young face aging as the hours tick by on the clock overhead.  

Dawn looks up at the clock, occasionally.  It looks big and mean, its numbers so boldly telling her how much time is passing by.  She can't think about what they're going to her sister back there.  She only hopes that what's going on doesn't resemble anything she's seen on TV.  She hopes there aren't chest paddles involved or giant syringes.  She does hope that her sister has a caring young doctor and not one who's coarse and cocky and hardened by life in the ER.  Or a drug addict.  Or someone who's slept with all the other doctors, and the first year residents too.

Finally, Giles exhales and runs his hands through his hair.

 "I just don't understand this…"  Giles says.   "How could this have come over her so quickly?"

 "She was fine last night when Tara and I saw her,"  Willow says.  "Except…"  her eyes meet Tara's and they remember Buffy's cautionary words: _Don't tell anyone else.    I'll tell them when I'm ready…_

"Except what, Willow?"  Giles asks.

"She was a little tired.  From training yesterday, she said,"  Willow says quickly.

"She was training awfully hard,"  Giles says.

"Maybe walking home with all those sweaty sweats on gave her a fever,"  Tara suggests.

"That wouldn't have made her this ill,"  Giles says.

"When the EMT's arrived, they said her temperature was 105,"  Dawn says.  "That's what caused the convulsions…"  She is remembering now the sight of her sister, shaking uncontrollably on the floor, the thwack that her head made on the bare floor…She could have hurt herself, but Dawn was there.  She put a pillow under her sister's head…

Everyone nods, although this is not the first time they have heard this.

A doctor pounds his way through the swinging doors of the ER.  He is looking at a chart when he calls, "Dawn Summers?"

Dawn stands slowly.  "Right here,"  she says, almost afraid of what she will hear.

The doctor looks up.  He comes over to her, hand extended.  "Hi, I'm Dr. Cunningham.  Is this your family?"

She looks over at the others.  Their expressions match---all knitted in worry, all hovering in expectation for what the doctor has to say.

"Sort of,"  she says.  

"Oh, well.  It's good for a little girl like yourself to have someone at this time,"  the Dr. patronizes shamelessly.

Giles steps up to the plate.  "What can you tell us about Buffy?"

"We're trying to get her fever down now.  We've applied cold packs and are giving her IV fluids.  We're monitoring her heartbeat and we've put her on oxygen to help with her breathing.  But at this time, that's all I can tell you."

"Any idea what you could be dealing with?"  Giles asks.

The doctor shrugs.  "It's a fever.  That's all we know.  We're going to keep her overnight for observation."

"Can we see her now?"  Giles asks.

"Not all of you at one time.  It's a little crowded back here.  You can go back two at a time."

It is agreed that Dawn and Giles should go first.  

Dawn holds Giles' hand as they walk through the swinging doors.  It's not as chaotic as she expects.  It's not like it is on _ER_ with people moaning on stretchers and naked patients screaming incoherently.  It seems to be a slow night.  As she passes each room, she notices an old lady is in one of the units.  She is hooked to a machine and stares off at the ceiling, alone.  In another room, a small child is running around, his mother trying desperately to coral him as he shouts, "It doesn't hurt now, Mommy!  It doesn't hurt now!"  A football player, red in the face, thermometer in mouth, sits on a gurney.   It's pre-season practice time for the high school football team.  He's probably got heat exhaustion, she thinks to herself.  And Buffy was so cold…

Finally, they are ushered into the last room in the hall.  And when she is shown the way, Dawn thinks that they have been taken to the wrong room.  She sees a still figure draped in a blue sheath.  She sees a dozen or so monitors all around, all beeping and making sounds that sound as threatening as a Nazi's words in an old World War II flick.  She doesn't recognize the small figure.  Until she sees the blond hair.

Buffy's hair lies in wilting locks around her head.  Her head seems to be disappearing into the pillow.  Her eyes are droopy, drugged, it seems.  When she looks up at them, it is as though she is watching from another place, from a dream state.  But she smiles when she sees her company.  Her shoulders are bare.  Over in the corner, her clothes are in a hap-hazard pile.  The only thing covering her now is a blue, quilted blanket.

From beneath her oxygen mask, the two visitors perceive a vague "hi".

"How are you feeling, Buffy?"  Giles asks.  

Her eyelids flutter.  There is a blast of breath against her oxygen and the clear plastic turns white momentarily.  "They've got this cold stuff on me.  I feel like a Popsicle."  Her eyes switch over to Dawn's view.  "I'm sorry I scared you, Dawn."

"It's all right,"  Dawn swallows.  "I was just worried about you."

"I'll be fine,"  she says, in a muffled tone.  "They're just wondering what I've got and I'm kinda curious too.  So I thought I'd stick around for a while."

Dawn nods.  Though her sister's tenor is light, she can hear the fear biting around the edges.

"Do you need anything?"  Giles asks.

"Just a nice warm fireplace and a pair of wooly socks,"  Buffy says.  "I'm freezing under here."

Giles puts his hand to her forehead.  It's as though his knuckles have been singed, as his face convulses in pain before he draws his hand away.

"I know,"  she says.  "Still a little hot there.  But it's coming down.  Only 102 degrees now."

They really don't know what to say to her.  Buffy seems perfectly capable of cheering herself up.  She is trying, desperately, to pass on her cheer to them, but there is too much to consider.  She is lying naked under an icy blue sheath trying to stay warm as her body temperature rages out of control.

Dawn looks at Giles face.  There's a need there.  It's almost as though he's already diving through his books at home, trying to figure out what this thing is.  He can't wait to leave and spend the whole night reading that small print in sparse light, trying to save her.  He doesn't trust anyone else to do this.  

"Buffy, is there anything I can do for you?"  Giles asks.

"No,"  she says.  "Not now.  I think they've got everything under control here.  I'm down three degrees.  In another hour, I'll be down another three degrees, and in no time, that mercury will be tilting towards the good side of the thermometer.  I'm going to be fine."

Giles nods slowly.  Dawn's eyes are filled with tears.  She'd nod too.  But she's afraid they'd spill onto her cheek.

"Dawn, you stay with Giles tonight, OK?"  Buffy says.  "If that's all right, Giles?"

"Of course, Buffy,"  Giles says.  

Dawn doesn't understand why she just can't stay there, right by Buffy's side.  Her sister might need her, in the night, when the nurses don't care about their jobs anymore.  She might need a drink of water or something.  Something cold to get the fever down…

"It'll be like a sleepover, Dawn.  Maybe Giles will even watch a little Carson Daly with you when TRL repeats tonight,"  Buffy says.

"It's Sunday,"  Dawn says.  "TRL isn't on."

Another blast of air clouds Buffy's mask.  

"Can you breathe without that?"  Dawn asks.

"Sure,"  Buffy says.  "I'm not Darth Vader all the sudden.  No Jedi fight.  No slashy-slashy at the Buffy head so that she has to wear black from now on and be really, really mean to her offspring."  She looks up at Giles.  "I haven't turned to the dark side."

This is something Giles has been wondering, secretly.  Does Spike have something to do with this?  It's just too great a coincidence…

But just then, he happens to look up at the monitor.  Her heartbeat is steady.  But he notices in the corner there's another indication that things are not as rosy as Buffy is leading them to believe.  Her temperature has risen to 103 degrees.  

There is something wrong.  Terribly wrong.

The next morning, Dawn and Giles are back at the hospital.  Dawn has spent a miserable night on Giles' sofa and she hasn't slept.  All night, thoughts kept attacking her.  She knew that the hospital had Giles number, but what if they dialed Buffy's number instead, her old number, for the house where they don't live anymore.  It's been disconnected.  She knew this when she tried to dial it shortly after they moved.  She called it even though no one was there.  Who was she expecting to answer?  A familiar voice?  Her mother?

I want my Mommy,  Dawn thinks as she walks into the hospital this afternoon.  Mommy would know what to do.

Giles prepared a breakfast for her.  Eggs and bacon.  All she wanted was a bowl of cereal.  He had Muslix, which she thinks is German for mucus.  He was doing his best to make her feel at home.  But she had spent the night on a sofa.  She almost thinks she would have been better off spending the night in Spike's crypt.

A sudden thought strikes her.   _Spike needs to know about this._

They approach the information desk.  There are two women there.  Both are consumed in conversations on headsets.  When Giles asks where they might find Buffy, the question doesn't seem to register.  But then one lowers her microphone, enough to relay the information to the real life people in front of her.

"Oh, Buffy Summers,"  she says.  "I'm sorry."

I'm sorry are the only words that Dawn hears.  She's expecting something to follow.  _I'm sorry, but Miss Summers is dead…_

Dawn's heart is clutched by her rib cage as she refuses to draw a breath, awaiting the rest of the sentence.  

"Miss Summers has been taken to the isolation ward,"  the woman says.  "She's not being allowed visitors."

"What?"  Giles says.  "Why weren't we informed?"

The woman shrugs.  "It was just done this morning."

Giles' lips form a straight line, curtailing a flood of curses and accusations.  At last, he only says, "I want to see Dr. Cunningham."

"And you are?"  the woman says.

"I am her Watcher,"  Giles says.

"And what is a watcher?"  the woman says, undaunted, though Giles' eyes are taking on an almost demon glow.

"Someone you wouldn't want to match up with in a dark alley should the opportunity arise,"  Giles says in a fierce whisper.

Dawn has heard some things about Giles' Ripper days.  He hasn't revealed all about those dark days to Buffy, and Buffy hasn't related all of what she knows to Dawn.  She can only imagine.  But she sees a little bit of what he was like then as he leans across the desk.

"I'll page him for you,"  the woman says, swinging the mic in front of her mouth again.  "Dr. Cunningham…Dr. Cunningham…please come to the front lobby.  Dr. Cunningham…"

Dawn and Giles wait for twenty minutes before the Dr. arrives.  He is wearing his scrubs and it appears that whatever he's being distracted from is of far better concern that what they have to worry about.  

"I tried calling you,"  the doctor says, letting his white coat flutter around him like wings.

"What happened?"  Giles asks.

"Her temperature kept going up.  It went back to 105 and stayed there for most of the night.  We got it back to a manageable level.  But not before her lungs started shutting down.  And then her kidneys…"

"My God,"  Giles says.  "Why weren't we called?"

"It all happened so fast,"  Dr. Cunningham said.  "I've been up all night, looking at my medical books, wondering what this could possibly be.  I've called in consultants from this hospital and even some that I know from other hospitals.  No one knows a thing.   Whatever it is, she's succumbing to it fast and we don't want anyone else to get it, should it prove infectious.  So we have put her in the isolation ward until we can get a little closer to what it is we're dealing with."  The doctor shakes his head.  "I said to you last night that it was some sort of fever.  But now…"  he cuts himself off, briefly.  "We don't know what it is, frankly.  But whatever it is, it's shutting her systems down one by one.  She was having trouble breathing last night.  And by the morning, her lungs were failing.  And then her kidneys were going.  It seems to be following a systematic path of destruction.  We don't know what to think at this point.  But we do know if it gets to her heart, as virulent and powerful as it is…"

"Yes?"  Giles asks.

The doctor expels a breath.  He regards Dawn, touching her head.  He is wondering about her.  And Dawn comes to think he might know about what went on in the last sixth months, if he sees the loss of her mother…and to lose a sister now too?  Her only sister?

"I'm afraid there won't be much more we can do for her."

  
  



	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

            The FUO in the isolation ward is not obeying anything that conventional medicines have to offer.  Antibiotics have failed.  General ibuprofens, analgesics, and the like have failed.  Twenty four hours under ice cold packs have resulted in nothing but shivers.  There is something wrong here.

            Nurses check in, hourly, all wearing protective garb.  No one wants to get this.  Whatever it is.  And no one knows.

            She has spoken to a doctor.  In a second of lucidness she asked the doctor if he thought there was any chance she would live through this.  He didn't know.

            She tries to keep alert.  It's hard, when sleepiness directs adagios over arpeggios.  She tries to rouse herself occasionally.  But whatever this is, it's too tough, even for the Slayer, who lies in a hospital bed, unable to speak for the tube in her throat, unable to move due to sudden paralysis.

            When she closes her eyes, she sees him.  And even when she opens them, she thinks she still sees him.  But he wouldn't come back for this.  He doesn't even know.

            There is something in front of her.  Someone.  She sees white.  It could be the top of his head.  She doesn't know.  

            She doesn't know until someone speaks to her.

            "You all right, Miss Summers?"  a female voice asks.

            Buffy doesn't know who's asking the question.  She doesn't know the answer either.

            She runs her tongue across her parched lips.  She feels the scrap of her sandpapery lids as they pull away from her eyes.

            "I want Spike…"  she says.

            "What's that, sweetheart?"  the nurse asks, soothingly.

            "Spike…I need to see Spike…I've got to tell him something…"  she asserts.

            "Who is Spike?"

            "Need to tell him…tell him that I really do love him…"

            "Do you have his phone number?  Can I call him for you?"

            "No…I need to see him…"

            "Honey, you know you're not allowed visitors.  For now anyway.  When you're better---

            "Spike can't get what I've got…he can't get human diseases.  He's a vampire…"  She feels the pull towards drowse and doesn't even try to fight it.   Her mind is slipping back into her dreams.  Maybe this time she will be able to tell him before it's too late.

            The nurse waits by her bed to see if there will be any more from her patient.  But she has fallen silent.  She watches her as the dreams start to take hold.  Buffy's brow is knitted and slight, small moans are coming from her mouth.  Her head turns against her pillow.

            "I've got to tell him…"  she says.  "I've got to tell him…"

            The nurse reaches to touch her shoulder.  She's delusional, she knows.  Anyone would be at this temperature.  The nurse has treated marathon runners with cooler temperatures.  She has never seen anything like this in her life.  And whatever it is, she doesn't want it.

            She withdraws her hand and leaves the room.

            Giles replaces the phone in its cradle.  This was not the phone call he was expecting.  Every time the phone rings, he prepares himself for the worst.  He has been rehearsing how he will react when he finally gets the news that she is gone.  He has been doing this ever since he first heard there was nothing more that they could do for her.  But for now he can rest easy.  She has lasted another day.  The night lies ahead.  He has been told she is sleeping peacefully and that he will be called the minute something happens.

            "Anything new?"  Willow asks.  She is seated at the desk with her laptop.  Ever since she first heard about Buffy's illness, she has been researching fevers.  Nothing she has read about even remotely resembles what Buffy has.  As a matter of fact, it seems like she has the nastiest parts of everything she has come upon.

            "No, nothing new,"  Giles says tiredly as he sinks into his sofa.  He takes his glasses off and massages his temples.  "She's still at 105.  Blast!  One would think someone would know something by now."

            "I'm coming up empty here too,"  Willow says.

            "I just don't understand how someone can be so healthy one day and at death's door the next,"  Giles says.

            Xander is sitting in a chair not too far away.  Anya is by him, but he is off in his own place.  His eyes are burrowing through an invisible wall where he sees Buffy again as she was in the emergency room the last time he saw her.  He wishes he hadn't gone into see her.  He doesn't want this to be the memory that sticks with him when he thinks about her.  She was being so brave.  But he could tell she was really scared and there were no jokes he could tell her, or himself, to blot out the fact that this thing that had her in its grasp was taking her away from him and everyone who loves her.

            "I've never seen her so helpless…"  he says, to no one in particular.

            "The doctors are completely frustrated,"  Giles says.  "This fever is resistant to everything they've tried.  They'll bring her temperature down and then it spikes back up to105."

            Dawn is sitting on the other side of the sofa when she hears this.  Something stirs in her.  _Spike…Spike should know about this…_

            "There has to be something we're missing here,"  Giles says.  "There must have been someone or some…thing she came in contact with to make her so ill so suddenly."

            Willow has been mulling over this to.  She has researched vampire to human disease transmission, but it is unprecedented.   She will not tell Giles about what she knows.  That was her promise to Buffy.  But if Giles knows something…

            No, she can't tell him.  She remembers Buffy's pleading eyes as they spilled over with tears.  "Giles can't know about this…I don't want him to ever know what happened here tonight."  She seemed so hurt and so…sorry.  Like her heart had been broken.  Willow had heard stories about women dying of broken hearts.  Could this be what was happening to Buffy?  No, Willow says to herself.  She wouldn't be dying for Spike, Willow consoles herself.  That was ludicrous.  She puts that thought out of her mind and settles back into her research.

            Dawn too is thinking about Buffy's last night with Spike.  There was something her sister wasn't telling her.  Something told her the evening was not the romantic vision she and Spike had plotted out as they lit candle after candle.  Buffy was all alone when she came back from the movies and there was a shoe-sized hole in the front door.  Buffy refused to talk about it.  All she would say was that she had screwed up majorly and she didn't believe Spike would be coming back.

            But he would come back if he knew…

            Dawn rises from the sofa.  "Giles, if it's all right with you, I'm gonna take a nap.  Can I use your bed?"

            "Well, Dawn, it's nearly eight o'clock now.  You'll be turning in soon anyway,"  he says.

            "I know.  I just want to be alone for a while."

            "If that's what you want…"  Giles says.

            The minute she is gone, Giles rests his head on the back of the sofa.  "I don't know what I'm going to do with her…"  

            "She's taking it very well, I think."  Anya says.  

            "I don't know.  She's holding in a lot in.  She won't tell me how she's feeling about all this,"  Giles says.

            "I know how she's feeling,"  Xander says.  "She's feeling like she's losing a sister."  _And so do I_, he adds to himself.

            "She's being so stoic.  I'm seeing a maturation in her growing almost as rapidly  as this illness Buffy has,"  Giles says.  "But she's still in many ways a little girl.  She's going to need us---every one of us---in case the worst happens."

            Giles has no way of knowing this, but shimmying down the drainpipe outside his bedroom window is the topic of their conversation, going out in the night, going to the person she thinks she needs most now.  

At the entrance to the cemetery, Dawn pauses momentarily.  She has run almost the whole way, but now that she's there, she can't make her legs move.  She wasn't afraid before.  Not even when she thought her hands were slipping from the slick surface of the drainpipe.  Not even when a car almost plowed into her on Main Street a few minutes before.  She was on a mission then.  I've got to tell Spike…I've got to tell Spike…she kept telling herself.  And now, with that mission so close to completion, she is suddenly fearful.

            This is Buffy's domain.  She probably enters the gate without the slightest twinge of fear.  This is her workplace.  Dawn thinks for a minute that it wouldn't be a bad idea to have a stake.  She could stake a vamp, she thinks.    It's all in the wrist.  Her sister makes it look too easy.  Dawn knows too well about those powerful arms.  They wrestled her when she was little.  They wore the sweaters she knew were taken from her closet.  They held her when she thought she couldn't stand…

            She takes a breath.  She's got to do this.  She's got to find Spike for Buffy.

            She is running now.  She thinks that if she can just run fast enough she can forget where she is.  This is one of the nevers she has been instructed about all her life.  Never cross the street without looking both ways first.   Never talk to strangers.  Never invite a vampire into the house.  Never go through the cemetery at night alone.  That was two out of the four that she has disobeyed tonight.

            As she makes her way through the cemetery, a feeling of rebelliousness starts to grow, spurring her on.  Look at me, fifteen-year-old Dawn Summers, bein' all bad, cruising through the cemetery at night.  She thinks of a game that she and Buffy used to play.  It was called There Ain't No Vamps Out Tonight.  One of them would hide, while the other would walk around saying, "There ain't no vamps out tonight…there ain't no vamps out tonight…"  Then the one hiding would spring out and chase the other.  The object was to make it to the designated base line without being captured.  Dawn never made it without getting tackled and pretend-bitten.  She remembers this.  And she is afraid again.

            "There ain't no vamps out tonight…there ain't no vamps out tonight…"  she says to herself as she runs.  "There ain't no vamps out tonight…"

            She is closing in now on Spike's crypt.  He told her he was living there again.  He was thinking about fixing the place up.  She offered to help.  She was going to help him look for things at the dump.  She was going to give him one of her old radios and the chair from her room that she pretty much used as a dirty clothes hamper.  

            Something has grabbed her…

            It has happened so fast that she can't even scream.  The thing has covered her mouth anyway.  Her arms are held fast at her side.  She feels her hair being moved away from her neck and cold air rushes across her skin.  _Oh God…_she thinks breathlessly…_Oh God…_

"And where does this little morsel think she's going tonight?"  the creature asks her.

She is thinking now about her sister's arms.  Buffy has told her something before about these situations.  All women have greater strength in their lower extremities.  Dawn can't scream and she can't hit.  But she can kick.  And she does.  A quick thrust is all it takes to momentarily stun the beast.  His hand slips away from her mouth, just enough for her to get one word out.  And it pierces the quiet of the night like the bleat of a whistle.

            "Spike!"  she screams.   

            Spike lifts his head from the stone top of the sarcophagus.  Is someone calling him?  He listens carefully.  He hears it again.  Chillingly so.

            "Dawn!"  he says, springing up instantly.  

            Outside his crypt, he sees the scuffle immediately.  He sees that the vamp is zeroing in on his target.  Rage fills him as he races towards the pair, stake in hand.

It takes one arm to pull the creature away from his intended victim.  And it takes one hand to eliminate him all together.

            "Sorry, mate,"  Spike says.  "If you were looking for a Taste of Summers tonight…"  He then plunges the stake into the vampire's chest.  "That restaurant is closed."

            Dawn still stands there as though preparing for the vampire's bite.  But when she sees that the danger is over and her protector is in sight, she rushes to him.  And once in the familiarity of his arms, she starts to cry.

            "It's all right, Little Bit,"  he says soothingly as he strokes her hair.  "Are you hurt?  He didn't get a nibble out of the Nibblet, did he?"  He looks for the telltale puncture wounds.  Finding none, he tries to calm her down.  There is such an urgency in her grasp.  It's as though she's trying to tell him something.

            But finally the words do come, though choked out and barely discernable.  "Buffy's…dying…"

            He doesn't know if he's heard her correctly or not.  

            "Buffy's what?"

            She thinks she can't force herself to say it again.  If she says it again then it will be true.

            She manages to say, "She's got a fever…no one knows what it is…"

            Spike's mind is seized by the memory of the Indian's visit the day before.  He knows suddenly, and all too clearly, the purpose of that visit---and the meaning.  He remembers as his teeth tore away at the Indian's neck, some words the Indian spoke before his soul slipped away.  He couldn't understand them.  Now he does.

 _The curse…the curse has found it's way…It's found it's way to Buffy._

            "Oh, God, Dawn…where is she?"  he asks.

            "She's in the hospital,"  Dawn replies.

            "Take me to her,"  he instructs.

            "They're not letting anyone see her!"

            "They'll let me see her, Little Bit,"  he says, kissing the top of her head.  "They'll have no choice."

            The pair enters the hospital a little after nine.  It is quiet.  Visiting hours are over.  But theirs have just begun.

            In the lobby they encounter a different set of operators at the information desk.  They bypass the desk and head straight for the elevators.  Dawn knows the number of Buffy's room.  She can't remember if it's on the eighth or the ninth floor.   They will check the eighth floor first.

            On the ride up, Dawn folds her arms and leans against the corner.  Her eyes are lifeless and worry pinches her face.  She is already thinking about what her world will be like without her sister.  Spike can't let her think that way.  

            He reaches for her and touches her face, giving her a slight smile.  "She's going to be all right, Dawn.  She is not going to die.  I won't let that happen."

            Dawn instantly knows his meaning.  And another kind of worry crosses her face.

            The elevator comes to a jolting stop.  The doors open into a stark white hall.  Before them are a group of chairs and a nearly leafless fern.  There is no one around.  Signs point them in the direction of rooms 810-825.  Buffy will be in there, somewhere.

            But as they try the swinging doors that lead to those rooms, they find the doors are locked.  Beside the door is an insert for an ID card.  

            "What do we do now?"  Dawn asks.

            "I could knock them down…but I don't want to call any more attention to ourselves than I have to.  Someone will come through here in a minute."

            They go over to the chairs and have a seat.  Dawn knows that to the passerby they are quite an odd couple.  Dawn is wearing a pair of bright pink shorts with a petal pink tee shirt and white sneakers.  Spike is in his usual black ensemble.  His hair seems whiter than usual.  He keeps running his fingers through it as they sit there and wait.  Dawn remembers how it looked the other morning, all mussed and going everywhere in these crazy curls.  She remembers the obvious joy on Buffy and Spike's faces as they held each other in the kitchen.

            "Spike, do you love my sister?"  Dawn asks.

            This seems like an odd thing to ask now.  But his answer is immediate.

            "Yes, I do."

            "Then…you wouldn't do anything to hurt her?"

            Not intentionally, he thinks.  "No, I wouldn't.  Ever."

            "Then you wouldn't…try to make her like you."

            Before he can answer, the doors do come open.  Approaching them now is a man sheathed head to toe in a white suit.  On his head he wears what looks like a beekeeper's helmet.  Around his neck swings an ID card.

            This is their salvation.  

            Spike rises to meet the man, saying, "Excuse me, sir.  We're looking for Buffy Summers."

            "Sorry.  No visitors allowed beyond this point,"  he says, like an automaton.  

            Spike smiles.  "Wrong answer."

            And he fells him with one punch.

            Dawn looks at the crumpled figure lying on the floor and wonders if Spike has killed him.  It happened so fast…Spike leans over the man and snaps the ID card from his neck.  Seeing that Dawn is dawdling, he barks, "Come on, Little Bit.  We don't have much time."

            Spike slices the ID card through the reader.  Green lights blink and they are admitted.

            The life on the other side of the doors has been silenced.  On either side are closed doors.  It's as though they've entered a wardrobe that acts as a portal to a place where nothing exists but emptiness.  Dawn is trying to remember her sister's room.  But she doesn't have to.  Before long they come upon a door with a red sign that reads, "No admittance."

            And this is it.

            Now, as they're about to enter,  Spike is suddenly cautious.  He regards Dawn's eagerness to see her sister and knows that it can't happen.  

            _Spike, I need you to look after Dawn…_

            Buffy's words come back to him with shocking resonance.  _I've got to protect her_, he reminds himself.   _I can't let her be exposed to this…_

            "Little Bit, I don't think that man was wearing that suit because it's all the rage in Paris this year,"  he says.  "I think you should stay out here."

            "But I want to see her!"  Dawn says, almost in tears.

            "I know, love.  I know.  You will.  When she's better."

            "She's not going to get better…"  Dawn says softly.

            "Dawn, I told you that I wouldn't let that happen.  You've got to trust me on that one.  Here…"  He tries the door of the room across the hall.  Finding it unoccupied, he motions for her.  "You wait in here.  I'll be back for you soon, all right?  I promise."

            Dawn sits uneasily on the bed.  She wants to trust him.  She really does.  But she can't help thinking that the reasons he wants to go in unaccompanied are not entirely altruistic.  As she sits alone, she says to herself, almost prayerfully,

            "Oh, Spike.  Please don't kill her and try to bring her back…she wouldn't want to live like that.  She wouldn't be my sister anymore.  Please don't do it, Spike.  Please…"

There is a girl in the room that Spike has just entered.  He sees her blond hair.  He sees her small head pressed deeply into a white pillow.  But that is all he sees.  For a minute, he stands there, wondering if he truly is in the right room.  This girl looks a stranger to him.  As he approaches the bed, his steps are slow, his breathing also.  He doesn't want to rush this.  Part of him doesn't want to see; the other urges him to look on, to see what he's done to her.

She doesn't know he is there, he is certain.  He wants it to stay that way, for now.  His footsteps are whispers against the shiny, white floor.  It is dim and quiet; one light over the bed provides a warm glow over the figure lying serenely there, among the tubes and wires and machines.  Her face is coming into his view now.  But again, there are doubts in his head.  He peers into the little features, combing through them for bits of familiarity, trying to salvage whatever is left.  But there is only scant evidence that the girl lying still and the girl he loves are the same people.  The face is distorted by a creeping blackness that makes it look as though she is bruised from within.  There is a puffiness to the cheeks, to the jaw line, like she is holding her breath.  Her lips are closed; her eyes sealed.  Under the eyes are deep, cavernous swells, holding more blackness.  The hair is stretched out all around her head, in a starburst almost.  It is the one thing that he does truly recognize.  He would know those locks anywhere.  For years he has identified her by her hair:  Goldilocks, he has called her, when taunting her before or during battle.  Today he has another name to call her, and when he says it, it sounds like a plea for her not to answer.  If she confirms that's who she is, then he really is losing her.

"Slayer?"  he whispers as his fingers stroke her hair.  He feels his jaw is trembling; his voice too.  "Slayer…"  He can't keep talking.  It's hard to him to even keep standing.  He crouches now, there beside her, so that his head is level with hers.  But he can't bear to look at her.  He has created death many times.  He has committed atrocities a war crimes tribunal could not even begin to fathom.  And he's never given one a single thought, until now.  This is too stark, too blindingly shocking.  He has done this.  The curse has found its way…to the love of his life.  

There is a sob rising in his chest which tortures him as it makes the ascent to his throat, seemingly splintering bones as it goes.  "I didn't mean for this to happen, Slayer…Oh, Buffy, I swear it!  I would never hurt you.  I made a promise to you and to myself.  But I've done it after all.   I had to kill that bloody Indian.  Just had to kill him.  Oh, God… I shouldn't have killed him.  If I had known…but there was no way I could have known…Oh, God, Buffy….Buffy, don't leave me…I can't stand the thought of being without you.  Please, please don't leave me…"     

There is a sound.  A pitiful noise is coming from her lips.  And then, very clearly, he hears his name.

He lifts his head now, trying to look at her again, now through a veil of tears.  Her features are stilled nonetheless.  He wonders if he were just imagining that she heard him.  But then, he sees her mouth form his name.  

"Yes, Buffy, I'm here,"  he says excitedly, grabbing for her hand.   "I'm here right beside you, love."

"Spike…I thought the vampires killed you.  They showed me your coat…"  she says slowly, her eyes still shut, her head slowly twisting against the pillow.

"What, love?  No, no one got me, Buffy.  I'm here with you, right now,"  he says, flexing her open palm against his face.  

There is a glimmer of hope that her eyes are stirring under the heavy lids.  There is a brief moment when they do open, and Spike sees a hint of red.  Blood red.

"Spike, I wanted to tell you something…"  she says softly, dreamlike.  "I wanted to tell you something so bad…"

"What is it, love?"  he asks, kissing her hand now.

 She touches the tip of her tongue to her dried and cracked lips, trying to ply them with moisture that isn't there.  "I love you, Spike…"

He sits there in the aftermath of her words, caught between wanting to lunge at her and take her into his arms, and just sitting back, wondering if what he has heard bears  any resemblance to what she intended to say.  

"I love you and I think I always have,"  she continues to say.

He is held in the rapture of her words until, temporarily, he is lifted into such a joyous frenzy, he forgets where he is.  In his mind, he is in that place where he has always wanted to be, loved by her, her eyes no longer seeing the demon within, but the man who has toiled and sweated for these words to the point of desperation.  But he looks at her eyes.  They remain closed.  And death is within her grasp as surely as his hand clasps her fingers now.

"Oh, Buffy…I love you so much…I can't let you go this way…"  Purpose seizes his words as a new thought enters his head, one that he's pushed to the side, not wanting to acknowledge until he was absolutely certain she felt the same way about him.  "You don't have to go like this.  I could…I could bring you back, love.  I could make you as I am.  And then we really could be together forever.  We'd have an entire eternity, just the two of us.  I'd be there to protect you…I would help you."

He silences his words, waiting for some reaction from her.  At length there is a sound from her lips, a low moan, issued in a defeated sigh.

"No…I wouldn't want to be like that…"

"The lover Wiccas could restore your soul.  They'd do anything for you.  And so would I, Buffy.  Please, let me do this for you.  There's so little time…"

"No…"  she says defiantly though her voice is weakening.

"You wouldn't have to kill.  I promise.  I could teach you how to purge yourself of the rage and the thirst for blood.  The Indian did manage to teach me something about that…"  He catches his own words in his throat.  He remembers again the visitation the other day.  What was it the Indian said?  It didn't seem to have any relevance then…they were just words, words from a demented spirit out to make sure his curse was known.  Was it a warning?  And if so, why?

You will know.  Remember all, and you will be saved.  Remember nothing, and you will die…   

Remember _what_?

Remember.  Before it's too late… 

A thought shoots a beam through his head until his brain feels like it's twitching inside his skull.

The cure…his grandfather knew the cure… 

"The fever..."  he says to himself.  "His grandfather knew the cure for the fever!"

Now does he remember? 

_Remember.  Before it's too late…_

He is electrified with this new knowledge.  She doesn't have to die this way.  And she doesn't have to live the way she would hate.

"Buffy, I won't let you die.  I can save you.  And I don't have to insert a single fang, my love.  I know what will rid you of this."  He peruses the perimeters of her lips with his, delivering a single, promising kiss.   "Hold on, love.  That's all I ask.  Just hold on."

Dawn is still sitting on the bed, looking out the window at the parking lot.  The lot is emptying and she sees a few nurses darting to their cars, shift over, freedom from the miseries in the hospital at hand.  It's cold in this room.  She thinks about tearing off the covers and wrapping herself in the top sheet, but she doesn't want to stir.  She is trying to hear what is going on in the room across the hall…

But just then, the door bursts open.  She hops to her feet, expecting to see security guards, another white-clad doctor in a protective suit.  But, no.  It is her black-clad protector.

He seizes her by her arms.  He is breathless and there is a cagey look in his eyes.  She looks for evidence of a feeding on his lips…

"Dawn, are you in the mood for a little pillaging tonight?"  he says.

"What?"

"Come with me,"  he says.  "We're going to ransack this town for every herb, every flower, anything that's ever grown wild on a desert plain.  And when we're done, your sister's health will be restored."  He pauses, taking the time to smile.  "Your sister is as good as saved."

Giles sits at his desk, bent over an open page in his journal.  The lines are blank as his mind.  He doesn't know where to begin.  There was a promise he made to Buffy a while ago, when her questions about former slayers had led her to think, pointedly, about her own mortality.  She lamented to him that she wished previous Watchers had kept better records of how the Slayers were killed.    Somehow, he has never imagined that her last breath would be drawn in a hospital bed.  This is not how it is supposed to happen.  She is supposed to be engaged in a fight with her prey.  But she is human, after all.  It is hard for him to remember this, except at moments when she does show this human side, when she is weak, when she is struggling for breath.  And to think that just days ago she spent three hours at the practice dummy.  It all seems so wretchedly sudden.

He presses his pen to the paper.  

_Buffy Summers, aged 20, on the 21st of August, 2001, awoke with a dreadfully high fever.  Assistance was called immediately and she was taken to hospital.  The doctors who initially treated her could only describe what was happening to her as "just a fever."  But within twenty-four hours' time, the ague which had taken hold proved virulent and fiercely stubborn to all modes of treatment.  She was then removed to an isolation ward where she is being kept on twenty-four hour watch.  As of the last hour, her doctor described her condition as steadily worsening.  Her fever remains high, so high that the doctors fear brain damage, as well as permanent injury to the kidneys and liver.  Her heart remains, strong though.  At this juncture, her physicians are not hopeful for a recovery, complete or otherwise.  They will phone the minute something happens…_

            He knew that this would be a painful experience.  Yes, this is why the Watchers didn't keep better records.  He is writing the last chapter on a life he has, in many ways, helped create.  It is only natural for Watchers to feel a certain paternal instant towards the Slayers in their care.  He is feeling it so keenly that in any given moment, the tears he has been trying so hard to keep in check may fall.

            Buffy's friends remain scattered about his living room like stones in a rock garden.  Each has found his or her own place and will not move or yield.  Willow is still at her laptop and Tara sits by her, occasionally draping a supportive arm around her shoulder and whispering to her.   No one has said a word in hours, it seems.  If they speak, their words will be about Buffy, and no one wants to face the fact that she is so far away from them while she's slipping away.

            There is a knock at the door.  All share looks to the tune of "Who could that be at this hour?"  Giles is reluctant to go to the door.  Willow and Tara share scared glances.  Xander immediately thinks, "Maybe it's the bad news being delivered in person, just like in the movies…"

            Giles starts slowly for the door.  The knocking resumes, louder this time.  Giles quickens his steps as his anxiety increases.

            Giles is too flabbergasted at the sight of Buffy's younger sister standing before him that he is slow to respond.  "Dawn, I thought you were upstairs?  How did you get out?"

            "Since when has a little thing like being in a second floor roomed stopped me from escaping?"  she says, arms folded.  

            "Get in here…it's not safe out alone at this hour,"  he says, tugging her by the elbow.  "Where did you go?"

            She takes a breath.  "Giles, you can scold me all you want, but I had to go find this person tonight because I thought he should know about Buffy.  And it turns out, he might know how to save her."  She looks to her left and beckons an unseen person to appear.

            Spike emerges from the dark.  In his arms are two giant brown shopping bags.  At the sight of the platinum blond visitor, Giles almost shuts the door, but Dawn stops him.

            "Giles!  He knows about a potion that cures fevers!  You've got to listen to him!"  Dawn urges, her hand on Giles' arm.

            "He knows nothing!"  Giles hisses.  "And he's not welcome here by any means."

            "Think what you like, mate,"  Spike says.  "I might have expected this sort of reception from you.  You genuinely hate me, don't you?"

            "Completely,"  Giles answers coolly.

            "Well, you love Buffy.  And I love her too.  And if you genuinely and completely love her as I do, you'll put away the fizzy hate tablets you have dissolving in your blood and listen to me."

            "I'm not interested in anything you have to say, Spike.  Not now or ever."

            Spike rolls his eyes.  "For God's sake, man!  I've been to Buffy's bedside tonight.  I've seen her with my own eyes and what I saw scared the unlife out of me.  She will be dead by tomorrow is something isn't done to bring her 'round.  The doctors can't do it.  The machine jobbies they have her hooked up to are just prolonging her misery.   You're forgetting that I've been dead.  I know what it's like."  He takes a breath, fighting back the images in his head of her swollen face, her blackening skin.  "Please, Giles.  I'm begging you.  I promised her I wouldn't let her die.  You've got to let me in.  You've got to trust me, for once."

            Dawn pleads Spike's case with dewing eyes.  "Giles, he really does want to save her.  And he knows how.  I trust him.  Buffy trusts him…"  Her eyes seem to be saying, "Why can't you?"

            There are a million reasons not to trust him.  But somewhere, across town, a girl he cares a great deal about needs a miracle.  And with her mortality hanging in the balance, it seems foolish to tip the scales against her favor.  There has to be something out there to save her…maybe this is it?

            He knows it's his own desperation crying out for an elixir that will make everything right again.  And when he invites Spike in, he can barely say the words for fear of choking.

            "Come in,"  he says finally.  And then, in a hushed breath, out of Dawn's earshot, "bastard."

            


	7. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

            Spike comes into the apartment and instantly dumps the contents of his shopping bags onto the coffee table in front of the sofa.  On top of Giles' copies of _Architectural Digest_ and _National Geographic_ is now a virtual cornucopia of dried herbs.  

            The Scoobies have gathered around, curiosity temporarily rousing them from their grief as they look on.

            "I raided every health store and hippie guru shop in town.  Even popped by your little Merlin hut, Rupert.  Didn't find what I needed there, though.  Most of this came from Helena's House of Herbs.  And if this works, I owe Helena a new plate glass window."

            "Spike put his hand through that glass like it was I Can't Believe It's Not Butter,"  Dawn says with admiring eyes.  

            "How do you know this is going to work?"  Giles asks.

            Spike pauses, looking at the myriad ingredients on the table and wondering the same thing himself.  "An Indian told me,"  he says.

            "An Indian told you?"  Xander says.  "Was this before or after he told you to organize a concert called Spikestock?"

            Spike frowns.  "All right.  Long story short.  After I left Sunnydale in February, I went on a journey.  I ended up in the desert.  I almost died, an Indian saved me, told me about how his grandfather had rescued his tribe from a deadly fever with a combination of herbs and flowers, how to overcome the pain in my head when I hurt someone, ya da ya da ya da, I killed the bloke.  Seemed like the right thing to do and the tasty way to do it at the time, but now…"  He avoids their eyes as he says this.  "I think he may have cursed me when I killed him.  And since I'm already cursed in some respects, I think the curse may have been passed onto Buffy."

            Spike knows Giles is coming for him.  But as his back slams against a bookcase, there's something that tells him he deserves this.

            Giles' voice is close.  His left hand holds Spike's shirt; the other, a stake, close to Spike's chest.

            "You did this,"  Giles hisses.  "This sick, obsessive love you have for her.  The Shaman couldn't curse you with this fever.  You've passed it onto Buffy."

            But on Spike's face there is nothing but the sincerest of apologies.  "Rupert, if I had known…Rupert, I would never hurt Buffy.  Not now.  You know that,"  Spike says.

            "Do I?"  Giles asks, forcing the stake a little closer to Spike's heart. 

"If I had known…you have to know I love her so much.  I love her more than anything in the world.  When I was at her bedside, I felt things I haven't allowed myself to feel for years.   I love her, Rupert.   It crushed me to see her like that.  And to think that I had something to do with it…I can't.  But if I did, I'm going to make damn bloody certain that I make things right.  Only I can save her now."

            Giles regards the struggling, white-headed figure in his grasp.  He has always tried not to look into his eyes.  Eyes are the windows to the soul.  And Spike has none.  But for a minute there he sees something mingling in the irises that looks like pain, and it has nothing to do with the fact that the stake is close to piercing his chest.   It's as though in this moment Giles knows every bit of turmoil Spike went through when he sat at Buffy's bedside.  He sees the pathetic figure he was, crumbling from the sight of his love hovering so close to death.  But his grip on the vamp remains strong, as well as his doubts.

            "I never thought I'd say this in a million years,"  Xander pipes up, "but Spike may be our only hope right now."

Giles knows this.  Spike isn't stringing them along.  He's not going to suddenly flash demon eyes and have a feast.  He hasn't so far…but things can change on the turn of a dime.  He remembers this as the stake remains strong and constant at Spike's heart. 

"I love her, Giles.  I love her more than you can ever know.  If anything, I'll wager I'm the only one in this room who's made love to her,"  Spike says.

            This is the last thing Spike should have said.  And he realizes this quickly when the stake twists into him even further.  He swears he can feel it poking at the vena cava with teasing ease.

            Giles turns off any further exploration of Spike's "soul."  

            "I could stake you where you stand,"  Giles says.

            "Yeah,"  Spike says.  "And I could kill you where you live."  He doesn't dare vamp out, though the thought does occur to him, if only for extra emphasis.  

But apparently this is all Giles needs to know.  The hand and the stake both fall away.  

With the sudden emergency over, all part and return to their chosen places.

 "Well, if it's a curse, Tara and I can reverse it,"  Willow says hopefully.

            "Not so, Red,"  Spike says.  "You and your lady love may rock with the levitation and relocation spells, but there's something else at play here.   Mysticism is not magic."    

            "Spike's right,"  Tara concurs.  "You may think that what we're doing is intermingled with all the spirit world, but there is a definite difference.   The Indian's spirit appealed to a whole different level of spirits.  And to explain the difference is like comparing…Apples to IBM's."

            "I have to agree as well,"  Giles says reluctantly.  "There are forces at work that none of us can begin to understand.  I may have a few books on Indian mysticism, but from what I've read, these curses cannot be reversed unless the intended victim learns something from the calamity that befalls him once the curse has been placed.  And often times, that's too late."

            "So how are these tumblin' tumbleweeds going to help Buffy?"  Xander asks.

            "When brewed together,"  Spike says, "they combine to create a powerful potion that wipes out the source of the fever, whatever it may be.  There's Carline Thistle, Cayenne, Chamomile, Horseradish, and Wild Root.  Everything we need…all except one."

            "And which one is that?"  Giles asks.

            "That's what I don't know, Rupert.  I searched and searched my memory banks and came up with nothing.  But I know there is something I'm missing.  There were six key ingredients.  I've only got five.  That's where you come in, Buffy pals.  So, Red, get clicking on that computer.  Rupert, slip those specs back on your nose.  Anya, supply your clueless wit.  Xander, keep being the wise-acre wanker we've come to love and loathe.   And Tara…"  He swishes his hand around in the air.  "You do whatever you do to contribute as usual."

            "But you have so much of everything…how do you know what amounts to put in?"  Willow asks.

            "I don't know.  That's why I stole lots.  If too little is not enough, we've got more."

            "And if too much is too much?"  Giles asks slyly.

            Spike regards Giles who is still wanting to hate him so much he isn't surprised that the stake remains in his hand.

            "Rupert, it's still more than we have now.  It's hope at least."  He realizes he needs to be a little more demonstrative about his intentions.  He's not going to get through to them without some dazzling display of their shared affection.  But she is not with them… He knows even now they are thinking this is some bizarre hoax and in the morning they're going to be participants in an involuntary blood drive.  "She told me she loved me tonight."

            There is a moment of silence, as though all are participating in a requiem for the death of all their preconceived notions of Buffy.  But reason rules again.  

            Giles speaks.  "She was in the throes of fever."

            "But I offered to save her the only way I know…"  Spike says.  "And she said no.  And I didn't do it.  I came to you.  Doesn't that say something?"

It says a lot.  More than Giles is willing to admit.  

Dawn is at his side, hugging him close.  He returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her as well.  He kisses her on the forehead as the others look on.

"It's OK, Little Bit.  I'm not going to let a thing happen to your sister.  I'm the Big Bad, remember?  Who's afraid of the Big Bad?"

"The fever, hopefully,"  Dawn says as she snuggles closer to him.

This is the first time any one of them has seen this kind of fondness for the vampire from a human who is not a determined victim.  It collectively startles the Scoobies…makes them wonder…

Giles is all too aware of the demises of the two Slayers that Spike has laid claim too.  And tonight Spike chooses to save one.  There has to be something else…there HAS to be something else…

"Please don't let Buffy die, Spike,"  Dawn implores.

"I won't.  You know that,"  he answers.

"I love you, Spike,"  Dawn says.

"I love you too, Little Bit,"  he answers.

And Giles has a new reason to worry.

It is much later.  The night has that past midnight feel, but no one has bothered to look at a clock in a while.  Willow remains at her laptop, with Tara close by as they peer into the screen, scrolling through endless names of herbs and their properties.  They have tapped into a massive herb glossary on the web and have spent the past few hours combing through definitions and descriptions of every type of herb known to man on every continent in the world.  Willow has made it through the all the way to the S's now when she finds something that might jog Spike's mind

            "Sanguinary,"  she announces.  "Real name, Achillea Millefolium.  Also known as Band Man's Plaything, Bloodwart, Carpenters Weed, Devil's Plaything, Milfoil, Nose Bleed, Old Man's Pepper, Soldier's Woundwort, Staunchweed, Thousand Weed, and Yarrow.  Do any of those ring a bell?"

"They all sound delicious,"  he says, tiredly, "But no, I don't think that's it."

"I don't think it is, either,"  Willow says.  "It says it's found mostly in Europe."

"Oh, and it may cause sensitivities,"  Tara adds.

Dawn adjusts her head on Spike's shoulder.  She is dosing, but is not completely convinced she's ready to sleep.  She doesn't want to leave Spike, but his body is making her chilly, she thinks.  She folds her arms as his arm goes around her.  

"You know, Spike,"  Giles says.  "We may be able to find this elusive herb a little quicker if you could simply remember the name of the Indian's tribe."

He closes his eyes and thinks.  In a minute, his lids fly open again.  "Oh!  Ogakor!"  

He sits back in self-congratulation, waiting for someone to grab a book and look for the name.  But his answer is only met with sheepish glances.

"That's a tribe on _Survivor_,"  Xander says.

"Oh, bloody hell!"  he says.  "I watched far too much telly when I was at Buffy's."

"If you can't remember the name of the tribe, they how do you expect to remember the name of the herb?"  Giles asks.

"It will come to me soon.  Now I really wish I hadn't killed him.  I could just get Red to e-mail him and ask him."

"He had a computer?"  Willow asks.

"Oh, yes!  He was on it all the time playing Keno and checking his stock quotes.  At first he let me use it, but he changed the password 'cos he said I was downloading too much porn."

"I had to do the same thing with Xander,"  Anya says.  

"Anya, I told you I didn't know how those sites ended up in the history.  I still think the super is to blame."

"Xander, he's seventy five years old!"

"So?  Spike's, like, 120."

Spike cuts Xander a look.

"And you wear it very well, my friend,"  Xander says quickly.  "Do you moisturize?"

Spike decides to let this one go.  "Onto the next one, Red."

"Santonica,"  Willow says.  "Also known as Levant, sea wormwood, worm seed…"

"But it's only found in Iran,"  Tara says.  "And is mostly used to treat round worm.  Has no effect on tapeworm, though."

"Well, that's disappointing,"  Xander says.  

Giles has been consumed by his own reading for the most part.  Though a librarian, he owns few books on Indians and even a few titles dealing with Indian mysticism.  But finally he does come upon something that does have an air of familiarity about it.

"This is interesting,"  Giles says, pushing his glasses further up his nose.  "Yes, this might be useful.  But it's from Armand Peltier's _Tales of the Old West_, so I don't know how much merit the story warrants.    It seems there was a settler, one Morris Colby, who encountered an Indian on the plains, and for no better reason than to just to prove he could do it, he shot the Indian and killed him."

"Ooh, little existentialism on the prairie,"  Xander says.

Giles reads from the text now.  "'Colby returned to his home, not the least bit remorseful for what had transpired on the plains.  His wife inquired of his whereabouts that night, but he said nothing, seeing there was a cozy fire and stew for supper.  He set about eating his supper and then retired early.  He awoke the next morning to find his wife shivering at his side, wracked by a terrible fever.  His sturdy son, in a room nearby, also awoke to the clutches of this fever.   The fever was such that it caused them to see visions and disabled their movements, as well as their breathing.  Within forty-eight hours, both were dead.'"

            In the silence following his reading, thoughts are forming all around the room.  And then all eyes turn to the pale, blond headed man seated calmly on the sofa and the teenaged girl snuggled next to him who has not moved from his side since he arrived.

            Spike touches his chin to Dawn's head and feels a slight singe.  He then turns, taking her face in his hands.

            "Dawn?"  he asks.

            She is slow to respond.  Her eyes look as though they want to open, but she can't seem to make them.

            "Her head's hot,"  Spike says.

            All start to approach as Spike continues to try and rouse the girl.

            "Dawn?  Dawn, answer me,"  Spike commands.

            "Mmm….so cold…"  she says.  Her lips open to the sight of her white teeth chattering together.

            "Oh, dear God,"  Spike says.  

            "Don't tell me…"  Giles says.

            "I think she's got it,"  Spike says.  

            It's becoming all too clear to Giles now, especially in light of what he has just read.

            "The curse killed the two most important people in the settler's life,"  Giles says, "effectively destroying everything the man loved…"

            "She was exposed to Buffy,"  Spike is saying, "She could have caught it from her…"

            "You killed that Shaman with your thirst for blood.  You try and pretend you're this docile, domesticated creature curled up in Buffy's living room like a bleeding cocker spaniel, but you're a killer, still,"  Giles says through clenched teeth.

            "Dawn and Buffy are the most precious things on earth to me,"  Spike says, gently lifting Dawn's hair away from her face.

            "And that is precisely why they are ill,"  Giles says.  "We've got to get her to the hospital."

            "No!"  Spike says.  "There's nothing they can do to help her there.  They don't know what they're dealing with.  We do."

            "Spike, Dawn needs to be in hospital.  If her fever is as high as Buffy's is, she could go into convulsions."

            "Then we'll have to control it ourselves.  Put her in a tub with ice or something.  And when I've come up with the last ingredient for the potion, we can test it on Dawn."

            "Are you really suggesting that we use Dawn as a guinea pig for this little concoction that probably won't work anyway?"  Giles says.

            Spike frowns.  "You people still don't trust me, do you?  I'm wracking my brain trying to remember this formula, and you think I'm only doing it so I can see you squirm.  You don't believe I can do anything good because of all my evil past deeds."

            "Well, it is kinda hard to forget all those years when you treated the world like your own personal Columbine High School,"  Xander says.

            Spike is about to respond when his mind is jarred by something Xander has said.  It wasn't the insulting tone in his voice, it wasn't the "yes, let's make Spike feel even worse about what he's done" tenor of the statement.  It was the content.  There was something there…something that sounded like an answer to his prayers.

            "What did you say?"  Spike asks.

            Xander's eyes bug out of his head for a brief instant.  "Now look, Spike, if you think you can start something with me, I'm in the presence of friends and Giles has plenty of stakes for all of us.  Aside from that, I've been working out and---

            "Oh, shut it, Xander.  You couldn't hurt me if your workouts consisted solely of running about with a minivan strapped to your back.   What did you say to me just now?  The name of the high school?"

            Xander reflects back.  "Columbine?"

            There is a light in Spike's visage now.  A slow, relieved smile spreads across his face as he begins to laugh.

            "That's it!"  he says through his chortles.

            "What?"  Giles asks.  "Columbine?"

            "Columbine is the last ingredient!"  Spike says triumphantly.  "How could I have forgotten Columbine?"

            "Are you certain, Spike?  Columbine has no medicinal purpose whatsoever.  It's just a wildflower."

            "I know for certain.  I remember when the Indian told me.  Columbine, he said.  Like the high school."

            Giles is still not convinced.  He stands with his arms folded, scowling down at Spike and drawing his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth. 

Just then, the phone sounds.  It is a sound that startles the group, collectively.  After midnight a phone call is always bad news or a sad apology.  In this case, they are all suspecting both.

The phone rings again.

Willow clutches a hand to her heart.  "Oh, God…"

Giles makes his way slowly to the phone.  On his face is a look of expectation.  He is rehearsing the words in his head again, planning his reaction.  But when he answers after the third ring, he can barely remember to say "hello."

Tara and Willow draw near one another.  Anya grasps Xander's hand.  Spike keeps his eyes on Giles' face as his hand reaches for Dawn's small, sweaty fingers.

"Yes…"  Giles is saying.  "Any news…"  His face falls.  "Oh, God…"

This utterance inspires a premature tear to slip down Willow's cheek as she leans in closer to her, trying to decipher the words coming from the receiver.

"Is she all right?"  Giles continues.  "Oh, I see…I see…"  He closes his eyes for a minute and there is a perceptible rise in his chest.  "Well, thank you.  You will call if there's any change, won't you?  Yes, fine.  Thank you again."

They know by his words that Buffy is still alive.  But what happened?  Giles is hesitant to divulge anything after he sets the phone down, though in the air, his present company's questions are being fired at him wordlessly in the form of furrowed brows.

Finally, he says, "Buffy went into cardiac arrest about an hour ago…"  He waits for that information to be digested before getting on with the rest of the news.  "The doctor was able to get her heart started again.  She was down about twenty minutes.  And now…"  Giles looks down at the floor.  "She has…she has slipped into a coma…"

Willow is the first to speak.  "Well, comas aren't so bad, are they?  People come out of comas all the time…"

Her hopeful words do nothing to raise the group's spirits.  Giles looks over at her as if to say, "Buffy won't come out of this one…"

There is no talking as Giles strides across the floor and heads for the door.  No one tries to follow him.  He needs to be alone now.

In his absence, all eyes fall to Spike and the shivering girl on the sofa.  Spike has thought that Dawn's euphoria has prevented her from hearing the news.  But she knows.  She is whispering to him now, in a distant, laborious voice.  He bends near to hear her better.

"Ulll be nes,"  she says.

"What did you say, love?  I can't hear you,"  Spike says.

She licks her lips as she struggles to amplify her voice.  "I'll be next," she says clearly.

Spike is quick to soothe her, though the only words in his head now are dark thoughts of the inevitable.  He looks at her lying there, helpless in his arms.  How many times has he held someone like this, marking a victim for death, endeavoring for a feast.  And now, here he is, wanting to pummel this demon curse with his fists until it's broken and shamed away, until it's nothing at all but a slight scare.

The door opens again.  It is an effort for everyone to look up.  It is as though if they look up, they might see the fear in each other's faces and what is going to happen to Buffy will be real.  

But inquisitiveness directs their stares to a bunch of light blue flowers in Giles' hand.  He brings them into the room as though he is carrying a bridesmaid's nosegay.  They look so pretty and out of place, so cheerful.

Spike is still looking down at Dawn when Giles comes in.  He doesn't see the flowers until they are almost right under his nose.

 "Here,"  Giles said.  "I had some growing in the courtyard."

Spike regards the flowers with an open mouthed stare.  "Columbine?  
            Giles nods slowly.  "Columbine."  He snaps the flowers away from Spike just as the vampire is about to touch them.  "This had better work,"  he says in a dark and threatening voice.

            "It will work.  I swear it.  And if this doesn't work…"  he takes a breath, remembering the Indian's words the day he saw him in his crypt.  _Remember nothing and you will die…_           He swallows hard before speaking.  "You can kill me.  As a matter of fact, I'll lend a hand."  He touches the side of Dawn's stilled face.  "If something happens to these two girls, there's not much point in being around anyway."

              
  


              
  



	8. Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

There is activity now in Giles' apartment, replacing the piquant lethargy of the hours before.  Most of the activity is centered on Giles' kitchen where a saucepot slowly simmers with the ingredients that will make a potion to cure the little girl who shivers under a dozen plus bags of ice in Giles' bathtub.  Xander bought all the minimart had.  With each addition to the pile, Dawn's eyes widen and she rises, as though ready to spring clear out of the tub.  The burst of energy lasts only so long.  Soon is under the fast melting glob of ice.  Her pink shirt and shorts now gleam from down below like hints of morning in the clouds.

            And it is almost morning.

            "It's too cold…"  Dawn says through chattering teeth.  "I can't stand it!"

            "I know, love, I know,"  Spike says as he strokes her hair.  "It won't be for long."

            "Spike, we don't know how much more to put in!"  Willow's voice calls from the kitchen.

            "Well you're the damn witch, Red!  Double double toil and trouble and all that?  You'll figure it out!"  Spike shouts over his shoulder.

            "It would help if you gave us some guide to go by!" she retaliates.  

            "The Indian said it should be a light blue color."

            Willow looks down at the potion.  Is sort of looks blue.  Then again, it's in a black saucepan.  Willow goes over to the cupboards.  In the first cupboard is an assortment of cookbooks; in the second, some Fiesta plates; in the third, glasses.  She seizes a small juice glass and hastily dips it into the now near boiling liquid on the stove.  As she hoists it up into the light, it shows its true color.

            "It's something blue, all right,"  Willow says.

            In a few minutes, Willow is in the bathroom.  She brings the potion in a tea cup.   Spike doesn't see her when she enters.  His chin is on the bathtub, his hands still stroking Dawn's hair.  Dawn's eyes are closed, but her mouth is open slightly, emitting slow breaths.

            "Is she asleep?" Willow asks.

            "I don't know,"  Spike says.  "She'll speak and then go back to where ever she is in her mind."  Spike turns to Willow.  "You got the potion?"

            Willow extends her arms, the cup between her hands.  

            Spike motions for her to give her the cup. 

            "It's still really hot,"  Willow warns.

            When Spike takes the cup in his hands, he knows what she means.  "Bloody hell!  She's got a fever so you're going to scald her to death?"  He dips his hand in for some ice and plops a few pieces into the cup.  "Here, Dawn," he says, cupping her head in his hands, "Drink this…carefully…"

            There is some protestation is Dawn in the form of a vague, I don't wanna.  But Spike forces the bottom of the cup to the bottom of her lip.

            "Drink this, dear.  It'll help you.  And Buffy.  You want to help your big sis, don't you?"

            "Mmmmm,"  Dawn responds.  Her eyes open lazily for a second before closing again.

            "Sweet Bit, please.  Drink this.  You've got to do this, love.  Please?"  Spike implores, pressing the cup closer to her lip.

            Her top lip folds over the rim of the cup.  A bit of the liquid invades her mouth and falls down onto her chin.  

            "Drink it all, Bit,"  Spike encourages.  "Every last sip."

            He dips the cup a little further.  More flows into her mouth.  She swallows, eventually.  And there are more swallows to come.  

            "Drink, love,"  Spike insists.  "Drink every bit of it.   And you'll be better.  I promise."

            Willow waits by the door until Dawn finishes the cup.   She doesn't know if Spike knows if she's still there.  He seems oblivious to anything but the small girl's sipping.  He watches every gulp as though he's taking it himself and occasionally mutters, "That's good.  Drink it down."   When he returns the cup to examine it for emptiness, he presses on.  Within five minutes, she has finished the brew.  And Spike holds the drunk-up cup in his pinky, as he leans closer to Dawn, pressing a kiss on her forehead.

            "You did well, Dawn.  You'll be better soon."

            "And Buffy too?"  Dawn asks, through the grating of her white, evenly spaced teeth.

            "And Buffy too,"  Spike says.

Willow walks away slowly down the hall from Giles' bedroom.  She has just helped Dawn into her pajamas and put her to bed.  She has left the vampire to tend to the girl.  He will not sleep tonight, he said.  He will stay by Dawn until she wakes.  In the living room, she finds Xander and Anya curled up with each other on the sofa, slowly sipping from ceramic mugs.  Tara is taking her turn at the laptop.  As Willow passes, she notices the screen.  There is a sprig of light blue flowers…the Columbine.

            Willow squeezes Tara's shoulder as she passes into the kitchen, where Giles remains, cup in hand, sitting at the table.

            "Preventive medicine,"  Giles says.  "There's still some on the range, if you want it.  I gave it to the others, just in case."

            Willow dips a mug into the saucepan on the stove.  She tastes it and then understands Dawn's reluctance to finish it.    
            "It's bitter,"  Willow says.  

            "I know,"  Giles says,   "It tastes a little better with honey."

            "You got some?"

            "There's a bear of it up in the cupboard."

            "Ooh, a bear!"  Willow says, going in search of the honey.

            As Willow is swirling a golden strand of honey into her cup, she regards Giles, sitting at the table, rubbing his temples.  He looks completely exhausted and Willow wonders what is keeping him awake at this point.  His thoughts are ringing loudly throughout the room and they're all about Buffy…and Spike.

            Willow slips into a chair across from Giles, though for a minute he doesn't seem to notice she's there.  She sips carefully from the cup, remembering the care that Spike took cooling the brew with ice cubes before he let Dawn drink.  In that small, simple gesture she saw much that she hadn't allowed herself to see before.  And she was beginning to think Buffy wasn't completely out of her mind the other night when she sat on the floor of her apartment, among the burning candles and wilting rose petals, and said, "Thing is, I think I really love the guy…"

            "How's Dawn?"  Giles asks.

            "She got it all down.  Spike insisted."

            "Spike…"  Giles says in a disparaging voice.  "If he's the hero in all this…"  Giles cannot find the words to finish, but Willow suspects they would have gone something like, "I may kill him anyway."

            There's something Willow needs him to know, but she doesn't quite know how to phrase it, because Giles' attitude is clearly still "down with Spike."  Finally, she sputters, "I've been thinking…about Spike and the no violence thing even with the V-chip not working thing anymore."  Giles peers at her quizzically.  "I mean, he's sat here all evening and hasn't made a move towards any of us, except Xander, and he kinda deserved it because he was being a smartass.  But, all-in-all, he's been kind of a non-creep and…sweet and all with Dawn.  Like he really cares about her."

            Giles sighs.  "To tell you the truth, Willow, I am just as perplexed as you are about all this.  When Buffy first told me that Spike loved her, I couldn't even begin to fathom what was going on in his mind.   I rationalized that by the chip controlling his instinct to kill, he was feeling vulnerable and subconsciously allied himself with Buffy to protect himself.  As time went on, I began to think that Spike was embracing memories of his humanity because he couldn't act the part of the vampire anymore.  He was recalling feelings he once had, not experiencing them in his current reality.  He moved in with Buffy and Dawn and felt the closeness of a familial unit again.  He wanted to be a part of their bond, because his own kind had rejected him so brutally and with Buffy and Dawn he felt protected and safe."

            "He felt,"  Willow says.

            "Pardon?"

            "You said, he felt, twice.  I didn't think vampires weren't supposed to have feelings."

            "They don't.  They rely completely on instinct and desire."

            "But he's acting like he really cares about Buffy and Dawn and has for a long, long time."

            "If he thinks that he loves Buffy, then naturally he would think that he loves all that is important in her life.  I don't believe his efforts were entirely charitable when he agreed to look after Dawn.  He was looking for a way to Buffy, and evidently, he found it.  Now it appears he's convinced her she loves him as well."

            Willow hesitates before venturing to say her next comment.  She takes another sip of the brew and says behind the shield of the cup, "She does."

            Giles raises an eyebrow.  

            "Now, Giles, don't be mad.  I wasn't going to tell you this because Buffy made me promise I wouldn't.  But I think you should know now.  Tara and I were at Buffy's apartment the night before she got sick.  We came to put the de-invite spell back on the apartment, but our timing was a little off.  He had been there that night.  And he had stayed with her the night before."  

            "I had some idea that.  She was hiding something from me when she was training the other day.  Why did he leave this time?" 

"She and Spike had a fight.  He was angry that she had asked us to re-spell him out of Buffy's place.  Angry enough to put a hole in the door with his boot and smash the table, but not angry enough to kill her.  He didn't even threaten her.  And she was worried that she had hurt him so much that he wouldn't come back."  She won't divulge why, but she remembers Buffy's words with all the clarity of a playback in her head.  _When we make love, it's the best thing I've ever experienced.  When I feel him close to me, I just want to get closer.  When he touches me, I want his hands all over me, everywhere.  He makes me completely, totally insane and it's like I get lost somewhere with him, in a place where I'm not the Slayer and he is not a vampire.  We're just two lovers locked in a passionate embrace, loving each other 'til it hurts.  We shake and we quiver until we almost cry…And then it's over and we're the Slayer and a vampire again and I can't love him and he can't love me.  But I do.  I really do love him…_Willow shakes off the memory of Buffy's confession and settles back into the conversation at hand.  "I know you're just going to yell at me for this and give me one of your disapproving stares, but Spike really loves her.  I mean, it's hard to forget all the psycho stuff he's pulled and the tally of innocent people he's put six feet under, but…maybe, his love for Buffy has really changed him."

  Giles is silent for a long time.  And the look on his face isn't one of disapproval.  It's one of acceptance.  

"I think you may be right, Willow,"  he says softly.  "I don't know.  Perhaps it's the late hour or the fact that I've had precisely two hours of sleep in the past two days, but I do see some alteration in his general directive.  But that doesn't mean that he still isn't dangerous, though.  Something keeps telling me that once he gets what he truly wants, we might see shades of his former self again in Technicolor."

"I don't know, Giles.  Do you think he would really go to all this trouble of trying to save Buffy just to kill her?   I mean, if you could see him up there with Dawn.  I almost cried.  He's going to be totally devastated if something happens to Buffy and Dawn."

Giles lifts the mug to his lips.  There are doubts forming in his head about the words he is saying, but he won't confess them.   Why is he fighting so hard to keep her alive?  Is there love in that cold, dead heart?  Or something else?  He has seen the evil in this vampire far too often to think that it could be vanquished by any human touch other than the thrusting of a stake.  But maybe there is something to this…

Giles sips at the brew and stares off in another direction.  Willow, sensing the conversation is over, grabs her mug and heads for the living room.

There is a soft touch of morning now glowing in the apartment.  The first sunbeams fall on the sleeping forms of Xander and Anya, entwined on the sofa.  On the floor lay Tara and Willow, snoozing on a pallet of blankets and pillows.  Giles remains face down on the kitchen table where he has been all night, except for the times he made periodic checks on Dawn, who slept in his bed.  Spike remains by Dawn, his head resting on the edge of the bed, his hand still on her shoulder.  Presently he is waking to the touch of a warm hand on his and the gentle mewling of a girl.

"Spike?" she says.

"I'm here, Bit," he says, automatically, as he's said about a hundred times during the course of the night.  But now he feels the warmth of her hand…

He lifts his head slowly.  When his eyes finally focus, he sees brown eyes staring back at him, wide, brown, awake eyes.  There is a red flush on her face, not from sickness, but glowing health.

"Dawn?"  he gasps.  He scoots closer to her.  A smile springs to his lips as he reaches for her.  "Sweet Bit, are you all right now?"

"Tired,"  she says

"I'll bet you are, Nibblet.  I'll bet you are,"  he says softly as he presses a hand for her forehead. "But you feel better?"  

"Yeah, I think so.  I don't feel like something in a meat locker anymore."

He smiles again as he leans over and kisses her healthy cheek.  And then in a voice that everyone can hear, he says,  "Hey!  It worked!  The bloody thing worked!"

Within seconds the sleeping bunch in the living room are crowding the door for a look.  

"She's OK?"  Willow asks.  

"There's no fever now,"  he says proudly.  

Giles is now making his way into the bedroom.  "Are you certain?"  Giles asks as he reaches to touch her forehead.  

Spike shines his eyes up at the Watcher.  "Cool as the proverbial cucumber, eh, Rupert?"

"We'll see,"  he mutters as he reaches for the thermometer by the bed.

As Spike is securing the blankets around her, Giles inserts the thermometer into her mouth.  Her teeth clatter against the glass as she tries to speak.

"Mwows Buppy?"  she asks.

Spike smiles warmly.  "She's going to be fine now, love.  You're the proof.  We're going to get your sister back."  

"Of course,"  Giles says.  "the ice submersion could have something to do with this."

When his statement is met with exasperated looks, he back peddles feebly.

"But, then again, the potion couldn't have hurt."

"Speaking of which,"  Xander says.  "Shouldn't we be getting it over to the hospital?"

"Yes, right.  We should,"  Giles says.  "Straight away."

"I'll stay here with Dawn,"  Spike says.  

"Oh no, Spike.  I'll stay with her,"  Willow volunteers.  "You should be there when she wakes up."

Spike nods towards the streaming rays of light coming through the window.  "This isn't my time of the day.  I'll sit tight here.  But you give me a ring when something happens, and I'll be there."

"But we may need you to play Chewbacca in case the doctors aren't too keen on using non-FDA approved Indian herb cures,"  Xander says.

"Sorry, mate.  Wookie costumes's at the cleaners,"  Spike says.  "You go.  This is the sort of thing you folks do all the time.  After defeating evil government zombie makers and a hell bitch, a team of Harvard Medical School grads should be no problem for you to get past."  He looks at Dawn who is smiling at him with such affection it's as though he's loving her for the first time all over again.  "This is my job."

It is a little after eleven o'clock when Spike gets the phone call he has been waiting for all morning.

"She's all right now, Spike,"  Giles tells him with reluctance tensing his words into hushed bytes of sound.  

Spike releases the breath he's been holding since the night before, it seems.  "Oh, thank God."

"They've brought her fever down to about 99.7 which is the coolest she's been in days.  And thankfully, there's no evidence of any permanent damage to the organs the fever affected.  She's awake and sitting up in her bed having a late breakfast now."  Giles pauses.  "And she's been asking for you."

_Oh, my love_…he thinks as he closes his eyes.  "Tell her I'll be there as soon as someone can relieve me of Dawn patrol.  And I'll need the cloak from my crypt."

"I'm sending Tara and Willow now."

Spike is waiting outside Buffy's door, wondering just what he'll see inside.  His memories of the previous night are haunting him.  Everything recognizable about his love  vanished by the ravages of the fever.  He remembers the swollen face, the blackening skin.  He remembers how it was a struggle for her to even grip his hand.  It was a touch that was foreign to him.  He sensed she was letting go.  She was prepared to die.  But he wasn't going to let her.  She should have known better.

But now she knows that he brought the fever on her.  He prepares himself for an adverse reaction to his appearance.  She may not be so willing for him to rush into her arms if she thinks of him as her would-be killer.

He presses the door and swings in with it.  First he sees Xander, Anya and Giles all huddled about the bed.  And then he sees her, sitting up against her pillows, her face still showing the fever's wrath.  Her skin is slowly returning to its slightly tanned and rosy hue.  Her eyes are bright and shiny as she smiles over at him.

Giles turns slowly to the figure inspiring the twinkle in her eyes.

"Right,"  he says.  "Well, we'll leave the two of you alone for a bit, I suppose,"  Giles says.  He leans over and brushes his lips across her forehead.  "Glad you're feeling better, Buffy."

"Well, not comatose anymore, at least.  But slowly getting to the better part," she says.

Giles nods slowly and starts for the door.  As Xander and Anya file past Spike, they both smile, knowingly.  Xander curls his fist and gives Spike an "atta boy!" punch to the shoulder.  He supposes this is his way of saying thank you.  When Giles walks by, he acknowledges Spike with a slight shift in his lips that suggests a smile, but he can't quite go through with it.  Spike understands.  Giles is a very proud man.  

"Oh, and Spike,"  Giles says, turning around before heading for the door.  "Tara did some checking on the formula last night.  It turns out that the Columbine wasn't really necessary.  It's the flower that gives the potion its unique, blue coloring."

Spike only rolls his eyes.  

"But, who am I to be a nay sayer now.  The damn thing worked after all."  As Gives leaves the room, he is still muttering, "the damn thing worked" as though even now he can't believe it.

"Killjoy!"  Spike says in annoyance.

"He's really jealous, you know.  He's my Watcher.  He felt that he should have come up with something to cure me,"  Buffy explains.   "So…I understand that you had something to do with this.  Both the getting really sick and almost dying thing and then the waking up not feverish and not seeing scary visions stuff in my head anymore thing."

He knew this was coming.  "Buffy, I didn't mean---

"I know you didn't, Spike,"  she says softly.  "I know you'd never do anything to hurt me on purpose.  You don't have to apologize for anything."  She reaches out her arms to him.  "Come here."

She doesn't have to even ask.  He is there the minute he sees her arms are open wide just for him.  Once he's there, he doesn't know if he's going to burst into tears or burst into song.  He leans heavily against her, pining inwardly to get closer, as close as he can manage.  His lips are traveling across her cheek now to her mouth.  There is apology in this kiss.  And relief.  

"I never thought I'd be able to do this again,"  he says.  "I was so worried I was seeing you for the last time last night,"  he says against her breast and she holds him close to her.  "Buffy, I just couldn't make it without you."

"I know.  The whole time I was sick, I kept having these dreams that you were dead.  I couldn't believe how lost and alone I felt in those dreams.  It was like I couldn't stand to be alive without being able to find you anywhere in the world ever again."

"Oh, Buffy…"  he says, kissing her again.  But then something occurs to him.  What she said last night.  Does she remember?  Was it real?  Or was it the fever talking?

He takes her hand and presses it against his lips.  "Buffy, while I was in here last night, you said something.  And I was just wondering---

            "Yeah, I know.  I told you I loved you.  And I do.  I love you."

            Now that he can hear her say it with her eyes looking straight into his it means so much more.  Now he wishes the others were here.  He hopes Giles is listening outside.  He hopes old Rupert is about to beg for a nitro tablet as he hears what's going on between the two of them.

            "Say it again, love,"  Spike begs breathlessly as he kisses her.

            "I love you,"  she says, with a slight laugh in her voice.

            "And again and again and again…"  he says, his hands bringing her face closer to his.

            "Now you're just getting greedy,"  she says.

            "Oh, Buffy, I've waited so long for you to say that.  Humor me,"  he says.

            "All right.  I love you, I love you, I love you…"  she coos.  And then finally, with her hand caressing his cheek.  "I love you, Spike."

            He still can't believe this.  He hears her speaking.  He sees her mouth forming the words.  And she's looking right at him.  He thinks to himself that if all this is being caused by the aftermath of the fever, then may she never see 98.6 again.

            "Buffy, the thought of you dying terrified me, even more so the thought that I was partially to blame,"  he says, continuing to kiss her.

            "Oh, well.  At least maybe you've finally learned your lesson about blood sports,"  she says.

            "I almost lost you, Buffy."

            "You got me back,"  she reminds him, returning a kiss.  "Would you do me a favor?"

            "Anything, love,"  he says.

            "Will you stay with me this time and not run away?"

            He looks at her a minute with that sloe-eyed look of someone deeply smitten.  "Buffy, I've got an eternity ahead of me.  And if I had to go through it without you, I'd stake myself.  There's no me without you, love."

            She pulls his close to her, letting his head fall on her shoulder.  He is trembling, and his breath is slow and labored against her neck.  She lets him kiss her there.  She trusts him now.

            "Spike, what are we going to do?  I mean, my friends will never accept you.  Giles won't accept you."

            "And I would say that I don't bloody well care, because you're the only one I want to have orgasms with.  But I know your friends are important to you."

            "I don't want to have to choose between my friends and you."

            "And I'd never make you do that, love.  They'll come 'round eventually.  They liked Angel, didn't they?"

            "You're no Angel,"  Buffy says without a trace of irony in her voice.

            "Damn straight, I'm not that poof.  Angel left you go.  Somebody would have to kill me to get me away from you.  Only death will part us now, love."  He snuggles closer to her, whispering into her ear, "Only death."

            She feels a shadow pass over her.  She shivers a bit and pulls Spike closer.  He is almost lying in the bed with her now.

            "No Slayer has ever lived past 25,"  she says.

            "You'll be the first, Buffy.  I'll make sure of that."

            Just then the door comes open and a woman dressed in pink scrubs enters with a small cup.  She automatically sees she is interrupting something and rushes to apologize.

            "Oh, excuse me,"  she says, her eyes widening behind her large-framed glasses.  "I'm just here to give Miss Summers some acetaminophen."  She pauses for a minute as though something has grabbed her.  "Oh!  I know who you are.  You must be Spike."

            Buffy and Spike exchange disturbed glances.  Did you tell?  No.  Did you tell?  They seem to be asking one another.

            "I'm Spike,"  he says.  

            "Oh, good to meet you.  Buffy, you talked about Spike the whole time you were unconscious,"  The nurse hands Buffy her meds and then a cup of water from the bedside table.  "You kept saying that you had something to tell him."

            "Yes, I did,"  she says, after swallowing the pill.

            "And did you tell him?"

            "Oh, yeah.  Message sent."

            "She was having some very strange fever dreams about you, Spike,"  the nurse says, shaking her head.  "In one of them, you were a vampire."

            Spike cocks his head to one side as a slow smile spreads across his face.  Buffy is silently berating herself for not dreaming more quietly.  She wonders what other secrets she has divulged while lost in slumber.

            She laughs.  "Vampire!"

            Spike is laughing too, his eyes mercurial and loving.  "Slayer!"

            Later that night, Giles is alone with his thoughts.  The house is empty for the first time in days.  Only Dawn remains and she is presently sleeping on the sofa.  He has checked her temperature every hour since he's been home and it remains at a comfortable 98.6, just where it should be.  She is exhausted and has slept most of the day.  Tomorrow she will go home and Buffy will be released from the hospital.  She too has not shown a sign of the fever's return.  She is lucid and slowly returning to her strong, capable self.  Giles wouldn't be surprised to see her back slaying by week's end.

            He has his journal open to the part where he left off the night before.  His hopelessness returns once again as he reads the dreary passage.  No, there wasn't much hope last night.  He was recounting the final battle of a Slayer who was, as two of her predecessors, dying because of Spike.  And in a move that would have surprised the hell out of Watchers throughout history, he saved her.  This is on his mind as he starts to write.

            _Buffy Summers survived the terrible fever as described above.  A potion was made from common herbs and one, as it turns out, useless wild flower and she recovered and is now slated to be released from hospital tomorrow.  She is still very weak, but becoming more robust with every passing minute.   At present a vampire sits by her bed, tending to her.  And for those of you in ages after me who are reading this, yes, you did read that correctly.  As William Shakespeare said, the course of true love never runs smooth.  And to add to that, it sometimes doesn't make any bloody sense at all.  Buffy's  heart has been won by a vampire, one Spike, a.k.a. William the Bloody.  I truly believe now he would lay down his life for her.   Of course, this contradicts everything I've ever known about the nature of the vampire.  They don't feel.  They don't love.  They don't have emotions.  They are evil and they kill.  But Spike is here to hold up his hand against all those previously held perceptions.  I would like to think he is a special case.  There are circumstances that may have some bearing on his behavior (see journal entries from October 1999).  But a part of me, the hopeless romantic in me, likes to think that he has been changed by his love for Buffy.  It's the classic story, isn't it?  Bad boy meets good girl. Bad boy loves good girl.  Bad boy becomes good boy.  My only hope is that he will be good to her and that his intentions towards her are true   She is a remarkable girl.  I don't ever want to see her hurt in any way.  I don't think he does either.   I will never say that I think she is in safe hands.  I believe she is in capable hands.  _

Giles looks at what he has written.  As he reads he can hear his inner self shaking its finger and saying, "Shame on you!"  A vampire showing and expressing love for a Slayer, and a soulless one at that.  He wonders where his mind is sometime.  

"Oh, piffle!"  Giles says, ripping the page from the journal and tossing it into the wastepaper basket.

The FOU in room 816 in sleeping now and at her side is a man, dressed in black, his head on her pillow, his hand holding hers.  Visiting hours have been over since 9:00, but he's not going anywhere.  He insists.  And he's not hurting anyone by being there.  All evening the nurses have checked on her with the question, "Do you need anything?"  and always the reply is, "No, I have everything I need."  As sick as she was, the nurses on the ward are showing a little humanity by relaxing the rules.  Her white-headed visitor thought he was going to lose her, after all.  They need time to be together, the nurses have decided.  He will be there all night.  And he will be the first thing she sees when she wakes in the morning.    


End file.
